


A Hard Fall

by Chaos_Elemental



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: 2008scape, Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Mahjarrat (Runescape), Other, Runescape Quest: Desert Treasure, Runescape Quest: Desperate Times, Runescape Quest: Dishonour Among Thieves, Runescape Quest: Dream Mentor, Runescape Quest: Fate of the Gods, Runescape Quest: Kindred Spirits, Runescape Quest: Missing Presumed Death, Runescape Quest: Nomad's Elegy, Runescape Quest: Ritual of the Mahjarrat, Runescape Quest: Sliske's Endgame, Runescape Quest: Temple at Senntisten, Runescape Quest: The World Wakes, Runescape Quest: While Guthix Sleeps, Sea Shanty II, Slow Burn, This is what happens when you stop playing for 10 years and then come crawling back (RuneScape)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 79
Words: 238,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaos_Elemental/pseuds/Chaos_Elemental
Summary: An adventurer finds a dying man in a cave. After which, things get... interesting.Featuring romance, violence, choc-ice, dragons, tragedy, a quest for revenge, cursing, goutweed, fate, cryptic messages from mysterious elementals, banana rum, a demon butler, vulgar exotic birds, insults to the gods themselves, a certain Mahjarrat getting kicked in the sensitives, and a little bit of everything you love about RuneScape.A Golden Gnome nominee! Now completed.
Relationships: World Guardian/Cyrisus
Comments: 21
Kudos: 91





	1. Down and Out

They’d met like this: He was a crumpled, sad-looking heap on the floor, covered with bruises and cuts, and she… was not, and was, in fact, a little amazed that anything this pathetic could exist. The man was practically a skeleton — eyes hollowed, arms bony, lips dry. If this were Mort Myre, no doubt he would have been a ghast by now. But instead, they were in a cave that glittered with rune essence and echoed with the stomps of the suqahs up above. 

She checked his pulse. Still alive… somehow. The enduring ferocity of the human spirit never ceased to amaze.

“Hello?” she said. The man let out a withered groan but otherwise didn’t reply. She felt a pang of guilt. 

_Food_ , she thought. She dug around in her bag — Lunar staff, diplomatic seal, sacred clay axe, burned meat (damn that troll cook)... swordfish. She dragged it out of her pack and shoved it to his lips. 

Cold fish wasn’t an offering that anyone would appreciate on a good day. The path of this particular man’s fortunes, however, couldn’t be construed as anywhere near the word ‘good.’ Wordlessly, he took a bite. 

She breathed a sigh of relief. One greasy fish later, and he was already looking better. She grabbed another and held it up to him. 

The man… turned away, refusing another bite. 

_Really?_ She thought. _Here you are, starving, halfway to Death’s door, and if it weren’t for me you’d probably be just another sad background skeleton in a dungeon, and you’re choosing_ now _to be picky?_

She tried again. No bite. 

She let out a frustrated groan. _Ye gods above…_ She put the body back down again and left through the crevice. 

Five minutes later she returned, with her pack considerably heavier. 

“Ok,” she said. “I did the best that I could, but no complaining about the seafood medley.”

She wasn’t lying. Tuna, lobster, swordfish, salmon… all the leftovers of a particularly vicious skilling session that took several hours and left her with approximately 4903 or so assorted seafood-themed catches in the bank. Ah well. Protein was protein. 

She proffered a lobster, which he took with much better grace than the swordfish. Next was a tuna. A second lobster was rejected, the salmon was not. She tried offering another swordfish, experimentally, and to her surprise he accepted it. When she offered him another he refused yet again. 

_I suppose he wants variety,_ she thought bemusedly. She dug around in her pack for something non-seafood-y. Ah, rat meat. Not exactly prime steak, but everyone had their low points. 

To her surprise, he refused to even touch it. _We have a gourmet on our hands,_ she thought dourly, as she switched the rodent for a tuna. 

As he finished it the man groaned again, and opened his eyes. Green met brown, the latter being considerably more unfocused.

“Ummmmmph…”

“Can you hear me?” she asked. The man gritted his teeth. 

“Pain… owwwwwww…”

Images of spinal injuries flashed through her head. The dragon platelegs she was wearing probably didn’t make for the best headrest, either.

“Don’t move,” she said. “You’ll be ok. It’s gonna be ok.”

The man’s eyes flickered, and they rested on her, bleary, searching.

“Help me.”

* * *

She went through another half a dozen assorted fishes before he had the strength to speak again, the colour slowly returned to his face.

“Will things turn out alright?” he muttered, as he deliriously nibbled on a trout. It struck her as odd, him asking that: He didn’t ask who she was, or where he was, or what had happened; just a request for reassurance. _Will it be ok?_

“Of course,” she said. _Absolutely. I can certainly drag your half-conscious body out of a little crack in the wall, past a bunch of angry troll-things lurking up above, and maybe get you a third of the way to the bank before you kick it._

The man seemed to take this to heart, and he sighed. “I hope so.”

She gave him another lobster and listened to the noises up above, wondering if her strength was great enough to lift him. Her abyssal whip was maneuverable enough for her to use one-handed, but without a shield, she wasn’t sure if she could get them both back to the Moon Clan unscathed. 

“You’re looking better,” she said, trying to fill the silence. The man shook his head. 

“You’re lying,” he said. “I look dreadful.”

_You do,_ she wanted to say. _You look like something the cat dragged in, played with a bit, then ate and vomited up all over the sitting-room carpet._

Instead she said: “No, honest.”

“Really?” he asked, brightening a little. “In what way?”

_You’re not dead, for a start,_ she thought. “You look and sound more lively.”

“That’s promising,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Maybe I’ll make it out of here…”

And so it went on. She would feed him, and reassure him now again. Yes, this cave was too small for any suqahs to get into. Yes, he seemed like a nice person. Yes, he’d probably get out soon.

It was funny. She was used to stroking male egos — that came in line with her work, whether it was to get a jail key or find information or stop a war between two dinky, idiot kingdoms. But this didn’t feel like ego stroking, probably because he had no ego to speak of. He acted like a kicked dog, almost as though he was waiting for her to reaffirm his belief that he was, in fact, a worthless sack of rubbish. 

Somehow, she felt even sorrier for him than she did before, if that was possible. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, after several more pieces of food. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“You're in a cave on Lunar Isle,” she said. “My name is Teiran.”

“Teiran,” he echoed. “Thank you. My name is Cyrisus.”

Teiran cracked a smile. “Well, Cyrisus — How did you get here?”

He thought for a moment. “I… was exploring the north end of the isle. There were a bunch of monsters… they attacked! I ran… I ran and ran, and I crawled down here.”

_Poor bugger,_ Teiran thought. _Probably some under-trained sap thinking he could go for a sojourn among overpowered enemies for a laugh._

“You’re safe now,” she said, reassuringly.

“I am?”

“Absolutely.”

Cyrisus shifted, trying (and failing) to sit up. “Ow,” he said. “My arms… my head…” He sighed. “I’m so tired, Teiran. Just leave me. My body is a ruin.”

Earlier she would have agreed with him, but something made her bite back on her normal pragmatism. 

“No, no,” she said. “Trust me. I’ll get you out of here.”

It took another half a dozen pieces of food, but he was soon sitting up, leaning against the wall and nibbling on a biscuit. His mood was still dampened, but he seemed to be growing more optimistic with every bite.

“Tell you what — I’ll buy you a drink after this,” she said, half-joking. _If there’s even an ‘after this’ for you._

“Really?” Cyrisus said, his eyes lightening.

“Naturally,” she said. _Has anyone offered to buy this guy a drink before?_

“What kind?” he asked. 

“Anything you like,” she said. “Blue Moon ale, Drunken Dragon, banana rum… my treat.”

“That’s really appreciated,” he said, smiling for the first time. “Thank you.”

He ate in silence for a bit, before trying to rise to his feet.

“Don’t rush it,” she said, readying herself to catch him. 

“I’m fine,” he said, his knees shaking violently. “I think I can…”

WHOOMPH. He landed on his bum, hard, and he muttered a curse.

“Told you not to rush it,” she said, offering him another biscuit, which he took. “Wait until your strength is up.”

“Ugh,” he said, rubbing his sore behind. “I never should have gone exploring the north side…”

“What’s done is done,” Teiran said, sensibly. 

Cyrisus was able to stay up the second time he tried standing; his eyes seemed less sunken, and his face had more colour to it. 

“There you go,” Teiran said. “You probably can’t do an agility course, but you’re much better.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d be dead without you.”

“Think nothing of it,” she said. _Just don’t get greedy and start asking me for red mahogany logs_ . _That never ends well._ “What are you doing on this part of the island, in any case? Lunar Island isn’t a place for newbies, you know.”

“I was exploring,” he said. “I greatly enjoy travelling the world and taking in all the experiences available.”

She smiled. “I can relate. The snowy peaks of Ice Mountain, the foggy downs of Relleka, the forests of Lletya…”

Cyrisus nodded, grinning. “Baxtorian Falls. Karamja. The pyramids of the Kharidian Desert. The wastes of the Wilderness.”

“It’s nice to meet another adventurer,” she said. “You must have picked up a lot.”

“You could say that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could smith you a full rune set, farm spirit trees and still have time to cook you a summer pie for tea.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding me.”

“No.”

“Then...” She tried to comprehend his previous statement. “Are you like one of those skilling pures, where you don’t work on combat at all? I mean, props to you, but it’s rather a bad idea to head into suqah territory when you’re not the fighting type…”

At this point, she noticed that he was avoiding her gaze, and his face had turned to an embarrassed shade of red. 

“Can we talk about something else?” he said. “Please?”

“If you insist.” She rummaged around in her bag. “Another tuna?”

“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind…. I could do with some armour,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Sure. I could loan you some.” _Do I still have my old bronze set? Maybe. I’ll find something that’ll fit him. Or at least, something he won’t fall over in._

“No! No. No need.” He waved his hands. “I should have some in the bank.”

He dug into his pockets with a quizzical expression on his face, and pulled out a couple of astral runes and a choc-ice wrapper, the latter of which he scrutinized.

“Odd,” he said. “I don’t recall going to Nardah… erm, do you have any paper?”

“Here.” She pulled a pencil and a small notebook, from which she tore off a sheet. 

“Thanks.” He wrote something down on the paper and handed it to her. “I have a friend working at the bank. Show this to him, and he’ll be able to help you.”

“What’s he look like?”

“You’ll know. He’s not from around here.”

“Ok.” She turned to leave. “You’ll be fine down here on your own, right?”

“Ah…” he looked around the small cave. “I will. Won’t I?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said hurriedly. “I don’t think anything can get down here. Nothing bigger than a kebbit, at least.”

“Oh. Alright, then.” He seemed to consider something. “One more thing — you have the Lunar Spellbook, right?”

“Of course.”

“If you need to ask me anything, just cast Contact. I should be in the book.”

“Ok. Good to know.” She turned to the crevice leading out of the cave. “I’ll be back soon. Er, try not to die.”

“Um…” He paled. “I’ll do my best?”

“Good.” With that, she exited.


	2. Altar Ego

_ Silly bugger, _ Teiran thought, as she headed for the ladder to the surface.  _ He mustn’t even know the right end of a training sword. Rather stupid, going around a bunch of monsters when you’re that unprepared… _

As she emerged, a suqah greeted her with a swing of its cleaver. As she dodged right, it barely missed the black cavalier on her head, instead shearing off a chunk of blonde, curly hair. 

“Mind!” she yelled, kicking it out of the way. “The hat! Shoo, bugger off!”

The suqah, grumbling, waddled away. The constant mists of the northern isles obscured the rest of the monster tribe, reducing them to shadowy outlines on the rocks. She dodged an ice spell flung her way and headed to the Lunar settlement.

_ I wonder what he was doing around here anyways,  _ she thought.  _ It’s a good thing I needed essences today. Maybe he was just trying to explore... _

As she passed through the village’s wooden walls, she unfolded the note Cyrisus had given her.

_ I give the bearer of this note access to my bank and the contents within.  _

The message was followed by the letter ‘C’ and a long line of wavy scribbles, which she deduced was his signature.

_ He’s got nice handwriting, at least,  _ she thought, noting the tiny, tidy letters.  _ Must be a scholar or something _ .

She reached the bank. Looking up from the note, she scanned the line of tellers. 

“Lessee. Which one of you might be friends with a badly inju— eh?”

She scrutinized the last man in the line. “Bird’s Eye Jack? Aren’t you supposed to be a pirate?”

Jack scowled. “Aren’t you the insolent fool who insulted my navigational skills?!”

“You were sending the ship around in bloody circles!” She snapped. “What kind of rotten navigator takes a boat on a carousel ride?”

“That was a jinx, you bilge rat!”

“Hey, if it weren’t for me, you’d still be stuck back at Pirate’s Cove!” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Oh, behold! The great adventurer Teiran, the world would crumble without her!”

“Whatever.” She slammed the piece of paper down on the counter. “You know a fellow named Cyrisus?”

“Yeah. What about him?”

“He’s in some caves up north. Suqahs did a bit of a number on him, I’m afraid. He needs help — he asked me to grab some armour from the bank for him.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “If this is some sort of trick…”

She shoved the note closer to him. He picked it up and skimmed it.

“Fine.” He grabbed a set of keys off his belt and walked over to the vault. “Armour only. And if you try anything…”

“Hey, I might be a petty thief, tomb plunderer, looter, and part-time lawyer,” she said. “But I’m not some dirty scammer. If I were, I would have offered to trim his armour, not fetch it.”

Jack rolled his eyes again as he fiddled with the safe’s runic dial. “Oh, like you’re a reliable source of truth.”

The dial clicked, shooting sparks, and the vault rumbled. “Alright, the pocket dimensions are aligned,” he said, swinging it open. “Don’t mess anything up.”

“It’s just some bronze armour,” she said, stepping inside. “How hard can finding a brown platebody —” she stopped dead in her tracks. “Be?”

She scanned the vault, her eyes wide. Pile upon piles of magic logs gleamed, tidily stacked. Rune bars took up a good percentage of the space, occupying the entirety of the back. There were rows of potions, neatly labeled, just above a respectable pile of gold. Next to it was an even bigger pile of marble blocks. One side of the space was taken up by a floor-to ceiling wall of runes, from air to law to water.

What boggled her the most, however, was the armoury, where a not a shred of bronze was to be found. Or iron, even. Or steel, or mithril, or even rune…

“Are you sure this isn’t Zezima’s bank?” she said, bewildered.

“Quite sure!” Jack snapped. “Don’t you go insinuating that I’m incompetent at this job, too!”

She picked up a gleaming dragon helm. “Why does he even have all this?” She took inventory of the other pieces of equipment. “Splitbark, dragonhide, dragon chain… can he even lift any of it?”

She looked back to Jack, who shook his head with an angry scowl. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my client’s bank contents,” he said. “And in any case, I don’t have any bloody idea either!”

Teiran sighed, at an utter loss. “I’ll just go with a set that makes sense.” 

As she gathered the armour, it occurred to her that she should check. She pulled out a set of runes and cast Contact, wincing as the spell buzzed in her ears.

“Hello?” she called out. “Cyrisus?”

“Oh! Hello,” he said. “Teiran?”

“Yes. Are you doing ok in there?”

“Yes. The biscuits you left are rather good.”

“Uh, thank you. About your armour…” She scanned the pile of high-leveled items. “Um. What are you looking for exactly?”

“What have you got?”

“Dragon chainbody,” she listed. “Dragonhide chaps, and a dragon helm. Very dragon-y. Oh, and some adamant boots. It should probably keep you protected enough.”  _ If you can even stand in it. _

“Oh,” he said. “It is rather nice… erm, can you switch out a few things?”

“Sure. What with?”

“Can you switch the dragon chain and chaps for Ahrim’s set?” he asked. “And the adamant boots for ranger ones?”

_ Picky, picky, _ she thought, as she exchanged the armour pieces. “What about the dragon helm?”

“No, that’s fine. That was a great choice. Could you grab an abyssal whip for me as well, please?”

“Sure. Do you need anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Thank you. Again.”

“No problem,” she said, grabbing a whip off one of the shelves. “See you soon.”

She let the spell fizzle. Jack gave her a dirty look as she started to stash the abyssal weapon in her pack. 

“I said armour only!” he snapped. 

“Well, he needs  _ something _ to fight off the suqahs,” she retorted. “Besides, I’ve already got one of my own, why would I want to nick his?”

“Hmmmph,” Jack muttered. “Alright, you got his stuff. Now get out.”

Teiran exited the bank, mulling over what she’d just seen.  _ I know some adventurers buy armour out of their league and train up to it, but this is an entirely new level, _ she thought.  _ Several levels, in fact. Is he trying to impress me? But he had all that stuff before I even met him… _

Several defeated suqahs later and she was back down to the mines; when she re-entered the little cave, Cyrisus was looking a good deal more cheerful. 

“You came back,” he said, relief in his voice.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s just… you’ve done enough for me already. I was worried that you’d get sick of it. Or steal my armour.”

“That’d be shitty of me,” she said. “Besides, I’ve already gone to the trouble of bringing you back from the brink of death. I might as well see this through.”

“Thank you.” He tried to stand again, and Teiran rushed over, grabbing his arm. 

“Be careful,” she said. “Here, let me help you.”

He managed to get on his feet and stay there. “I think I’ve got it.” 

She let go of his arm and handed him her bag. “Here’s your stuff,” she said, carefully.  _ I’ll have to watch out when you fall again, I suppose. Maybe I should have grabbed an iron set while I was still back at the bank… _

“Thanks. Can you, erm, look away?”

“Yes!” She whipped around, her face burning. “Carry on.”

She heard the rustling of fabric, and the clinking of metal. And then:

“Ok, you can look now.”

She turned. He looked… well, like a war machine. She’d heard that anyone who tried wearing Ahrim’s robes before they were trained enough in magic were cursed with withering blight; however, if anything, he looked stronger in them. The dragon helm looked as familiar to him as Teiran’s cavalier was to her; and he wielded the whip like an expert, even as it waved and twisted in the air from the abyssal energy within. 

She looked him up and down. She didn’t know any better, she would have thought he was about to fight the Kalphite Queen — not run from a bunch of suqahs. 

Something didn’t add up. 

“Alright then,” she said. “Spit it out. How can someone with a bank full of high-level equipment, armour like they’re about to go boss-killing, and magic enough to know what the Contact spell is, end up nearly getting beaten to death by a bunch of mediocre troll-thingies?”

Cyrisus avoided her gaze again, his face as red as the dragon helm he wore. “Well, um, you see…The thing is... the thing that I should say... the problem I have, for which you should know…”

“Out with it.”

He sighed. “I guess there’s no hiding it.” He took a breath. “I’m afraid of combat.”

“You…?” She turned the statement over in her head, and failed to find anything comprehensible in it. “What?”

Cyrisus sat down despairingly. “I've tried so hard over the years,” he said, looking down. “But I simply cannot gather the courage to fight monsters. I've learnt the techniques, I've got the equipment. I just get so afraid. My legs turn to jelly, I'm dripping with sweat. All I can do is run.”

“Oh.” She sat down next to him. “I’m… surprised.”

“Why would you be?”

She gestured to his armament. “Unless you’re off fighting the Corporeal Beast, I’d think you’d be pretty set in the combat department. Hell, you could probably off those suqahs in three hits or so!”

“I know. But…” he winced. “I just can’t get myself to cooperate. I just think about how I can’t endure… or that I don’t know how to win… or that I’m just not good enough…”

“Nonsense.” She patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve gotten far enough to wield dragon armour, for Guthix’s sake! I’m sure you’re good enough to fight suqahs. And other, stronger things.”

He looked up. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she said. “And I’m sure it’s all in your head.”

“That’s why I came here, actually. You’ve been through all the dream trials, yes?”

“The ones where you race moon-people and hop on clouds and chop troys? Yes.”

“I have, too. I was hoping the Lunar Clan could help me again. See into my dreams and conquer my fear of combat, if that’s possible.”

She shrugged. “I don’t see why not. You were trying to find the Oneiromancer, I suppose?”

“Yes. She’s around here, right?”

“Wrong suqah-infested part of the island, I’m afraid. She’s on the south end.” 

“Oh.” He got up. “Well, that was stupid of me. I don’t want to have to go near those monsters again —” he shivered “ — but I don’t have much choice, I suppose.”

Teiran got up. “Tell you what,” she said, offering him a hand. “I’ll come with you to see her. If any suqahs go near you, I’ll knock ‘em off. Deal?”

“I—” his eyes widened. “You really don’t have to. You’ve done enough for me already.”

She grinned. “I’m an  _ adventurer,” _ she said. “Helping people is part of my repertoire. With the promise of massive rewards, of course. And having seen your bank, I know you’re not short on that sort of thing.”

He grinned back, and took her dragon-gloved hand. “You’re a shrewd businesswoman, is what you are. Fine enough — you help me, and I’ll return the favor.”

“Deal.” She hefted him off the floor. “Here’s the plan. You run as fast as you can to the south side of the island, and I’ll stay close and hit anything that tries to attack us.”

“No need. I’ll find my own way there.”

“Past the suqahs? Yourself?”

“Heavens, no. I have my own methods. You go on ahead.”

She gave him a strange look. “If you say so. Uh, see you there.”

“Thank you again!” he shouted, as she headed out of the cave again. “I’ll pay you back for all the fish, I promise!”

_ Strong enough to wield an abyssal whip, and knock-kneed when he sees anything more frightening than a goblin. What a weird guy. _ she thought, as she climbed up the ladder.  _ What a weird day.  _

_ And why do I have the feeling that it’s going to get weirder? _


	3. Marzipan

The Oneiromancer was at her usual spot by the Astral Altar, hovering ethereally as always.

_ Why do the Moon Clan have to float everywhere, anyways? _ Teiran thought, as she dodged a blow from a suqah.  _ Are they that magical? Is it to save on footwear? Or are they just showing off? _

The lunar leader smiled benevolently as Teiran approached. 

“Hello again, adventurer,” she said. “How are you?”

Teiran skipped to the point. “You know a fellow named Cyrisus?”

The Oneiromancer thought for a moment. “Ye-es,” she said. “He came to visit us a while ago. He’s quite nice. Terrified of the suqahs, though. I haven’t seen him for some time.”

“Yes, well, he was dying in the Lunar Mines until a little while ago,” Teiran said testily. “He’s doing better now, he should be here any min—” 

A flicker over Teiran’s shoulder triggered her instincts, and she rolled out of the way just as Cyrisus teleported in, landing roughly on the damp rocks.

“Sorry,” he said, brushing himself off. “It’s hard to get the coordinates right, and I’m a little out of sorts.”

Teiran scowled. “You should have warned me that you weren’t going to walk!”

“I didn’t want to be a bother.” He offered a hand. She declined to take it, and got up on her own. 

“Let’s get to business,” she said, turning to the Oneiromancer. “Is it possible to resolve a crippling fear of combat in Dreamland?”

“Certainly,” the Oneiromancer said. “The Potion of Shared Dreaming can allow you both to delve in your subconscious and deal with your biggest issue. However, it may be dangerous.”

Cyrisus paled. “Dangerous how?”

“The potion works by binding your subconscia together,” The Oneiromancer said. “The brazier will understand your intentions when placing you in the Dreamscape.”

“I still don’t see the dangerous part,” Cyrisus said.

“With your minds melded together, you will need to depend on each other to survive. If one of you dies in the dream, you both will die for real.”

Cyrisus turned a faint shade of green. “You know what? I think I’m actually fine. I’ll just teleport back to Ardougne, and I can become a farmer.”

Teiran grabbed him by the front of his robe. “Oi! You’re forgetting something.” She jabbed a thumb at her chest. “Me.”

The Oneiromancer nodded. “Teiran will be able to aid you. Whatever you may face may be a challenge, so it will take your combined efforts in order to succeed.”

Teiran grinned. “If I can take on a dragon, a demon trying to devour Varrock, Koschei the Deathless, and some weird freaky dream version of myself, then whatever is in there is bound to be a piece of cake.” She glanced at Cyrisus. “We’ll have this handled by tea, don’t you worry.”

Cyrisus nodded, carefully. “If you say so.”

“We’ll be fine. Trust me.” She turned back to the Oneiromancer. “What does the potion need?”

“Oh, it’s rather simple,” the mage said. “Just a ground-up astral rune, and…”

_ Here it goes, _ Teiran thought, dreading what she would say next.  _ It’s never something simple and easily-obtainable at the Grand Exchange, like a marrentill or a curry leaf or diamond ring. Nooooo, it’s always the egg from the Evil Chicken, or a weird fluorescent space flower that needs a farming skill cape to pick, or the tears of a rare snake, or something. _

“Goutweed,” the Oneiromancer said. “It’s found in the troll mountains, I believe. 

Teiran’s face was expressionless.

_ Goutweed! _ She fumed internally.  _ It’s always bloody goutweed! As if I haven’t poisoned enough poor parrots or been hit in the head by a bunch of damn trolls enough!  _

“Fine,” she said. “Perfectly doable.”

The Oneiromancer smiled. “Very well,” she said. “I knew you could do it.”

_ Oh, yes, I could do it. Because apparently doing it once for an insane druid wasn’t enough,  _ she thought, as she left the Astral Altar and picked her way down the beach. An errant suqah attempted to hit her on the head; instead, it was blocked by a well-timed glance from her obsidian shield. 

Barely slowing down, she turned and kicked the creature in some soft spot. By its now much-higher-pitched grunts, the blow had dealt a good deal of damage. She paid it little mind, and continued to the island settlement. 

_ At least I’ll get paid well for this. Maybe I can finally get an amulet of fury… _

As she reached the village entrance, she saw the air next to her flicker again. This time Cyrisus appeared next to her, stumbling a little on the rocky island soil. 

“Just how many law runes do you have?” she asked, as he gained his footing. 

“A lot,” he said, simply. “The Oneiromancer doesn’t get out a lot, does she?”

“No. Probably doesn’t want the suqahs mucking with the altar, or something.”

Cyrisus nodded. “True. It would probably explain why she doesn’t know that goutweed’s been extinct for years from all the trolls harvesting it.”

_ Huh. I guess he has been around. _ “Yeah, it would explain it,” she said.

“How does she expect you to find any if there’s none left?”

“That’s the tricky bit,” she said. “There is some left. In the middle of the Troll Stronghold. Heavily guarded by a battalion of armoured trolls with no brains and lots of weaponry.”

Cyrisus’ eyebrows furrowed. “All that for a scraggly little herb?”

“Trolls take their goutweed very, very seriously.”

“So it’s as good as inaccessible?”

Teiran shook her head. “Nah. It’s just a real bugger to get to. This time should be easier, at least,” she said. “I had to intoxicate a parrot and threaten a druid for his laundry last time.”

He snorted. “A parrot? You’ll have to tell me about that some time.”

“Over drinks,” she said. 

“I’m still going to hold you to that.”

“Sure,” she said, distractedly. She dug around in her pack for some teleport runes. “Anyways, I need to go. I have some trolls to dodge.”

“I could help, if you want,” he said. 

Teiran shook her head again. “Let me handle it. You’ve got enough on your hands. You should probably, er, mentally prepare. Get food. All that.”

_ The last thing I need is a scared shitless lunatic alerting the guards with his screaming.  _

“Ok,” he said, sounding unsure. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“I’ll be fiiiine,” she said, waving it away. “Like I said — I’ve handled it before. And I’ve handled worse.”

She cast Teleport to Trollheim. The surrounding of the Lunar Isle, as well as Cyrisus, began to disappear. 

“Good luck!” he shouted, as he faded away.

* * *

Teiran groaned, rubbing the growing goose-egg forming on her temple. 

Damn those guards! One moment she was in the clear, racing towards the crate full of herbs, which had been so, tantalizingly close… and next thing she knew, a rock was colliding with her head, and then it was back to square one.

The first ingredient had been so  _ easy. _ Take an astral rune, bang it on an anvil, grind it up and dump it in a vial. The goutweed, however… 

Damn the guards. Damn the trolls, for clearing out every last scrap of that stupid plant and hoarding it all in some stinking basement....

“Choc-ice?” a voice said next to her.

She whipped around. Cyrisus was standing next to her, proffering a frozen chocolate bar.

“I thought I told you to stay on Lunar Isle,” she said. Nevertheless, she took it and held it up to the bruise, drippings be damned.

“I hope it’s not too runny,” he said. “I teleported from Nardah as fast as I could.”

Despite the stickiness, the cold was soothing. “Thank you,” she muttered. “You should probably get going before the guards notice you.”

Cyrisus avoided her gaze. “That’s the thing. I wanted to, uh… help.”

She should have said:  _ If you want to help me, go to the Oneiromancer and tell her to read a book on herblore from this century.  _

Or perhaps:  _ Can you go research some sustainable, easily-obtainable, non-troll-involved goutweed alternatives? _

Or even:  _ With your skills, you might even live a troll onslaught! _

Instead, she said, bewilderingly, 

“Well, I suppose we could give it go.”

He grinned, perhaps a little madly. “I mean, it’s not fighting — right?”

“Suuuuure,” she said. “Ok, here’s what we’re reckoning with.”

She traced a crude map on the dirt floor.

“The main issue is the guards going around  _ here,” _ she said, circling a scratch in the ground that roughly correlated with the storage room’s west wall. “If we can clear that, then one of us can nip round it without running into anyone.”

“I can do that,” Cyrisus said. 

“Really?”

“I’m good at running,” he said. “I’ve run from lots of things. Suqahs. Cockatrices. Cows. Rock crabs. Goblins…”

“I get it, I get it,” Teiran said. “Ok, so you can be the runner. Grab the goutweed from  _ here _ , and getting back should be easy.”

“What about you?”

“Me?” She grinned. “I’m going to be the distraction.”

* * *

Cyrisus peeked out from around the corner. The troll guards stomped mindlessly and endlessly through the rows of boxes — a task that bore any human to death, but, to a troll, was pleasantly mentally stimulating as a medium-difficulty puzzle box. 

Teiran was just ahead of him, watching the guards cycle through.

“On my signal.” she hissed. “Ok. Ready…”

“Wait,” Cyrisus cut in. “Shouldn’t you be wearing better headgear?”

“What are you talking about?”

He pointed to her hat.

“Oh. This.” She took off the cavalier. “I’ve had this since forever. I don’t really take it off unless I’m trying to kill something.”

“It’s very nice,” he conceded. “But if you’re going to get hit in the head with a whole lot of rocks, shouldn’t you be wearing something a little… sturdier?”

The worried look on his face was actually kind of sweet, she granted. Teiran tried to grin reassuringly, though the throb in her temples from previous failed attempts twisted it into more of a grimace. 

“I’ll be fine.” She tapped her head, trying to conceal a wince. “Nothing I can’t recover from. I’ve always had a thick skull, and I’ve been banged in the head so many times, what’s a few more?”

He didn’t seem convinced. “Here,” he said, taking off his dragon helm. “You’ll probably need this more than I do.”

Before she could protest, he put the helm on over her head — a little jauntily, but gently enough so not to box her ears.

“How’s that?”

Teiran wasn’t much for helmets — she occasionally wore a Helm of Neitiznot for the prayer bonus, but they tended to be too stifling for her taste. But, admittedly, it did make her feel more rock-proof than before. 

“It’s a little sweaty,” she said. “But I reckon it’s alright.”

“Ah, sorry. And, um, that’s good.” He grinned, nervously. 

She tapped the helm. The dragon metal felt reassuringly solid under her knuckles. “Will you be fine without it?”

“It’ll only slow me down.” He glanced to the guards, still marching through their eternal, mindless patrol. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

* * *

A troll guard’s list of duties is relatively limited, befitting its intelligence. Store room patrol was reserved for trolls not quite bright enough to guard the labyrinthine of Trollheim, but not quite stupid enough for the slumber-enducing lull of the torture chambers. As such, standard protocol went something like this:

  1. If you see not-troll runnin’, hit it widda rock. 
  2. If you see not-troll sneakin’ around, hit it widda rock.
  3. No disturbin’ da cooks. 
  4. If you see a not-troll inna goutweed, hit it widda rock.



This more or less accounted for the vast majority of scenarios a troll guard encountered in its line of duty. Said scenarios overwhelmingly resulting in an earthen projectile headed towards the target’s head at a high velocity, with the offender unerringly being knocked out and dragged away like monstrous clockwork. 

The events that followed Teiran and Cyrisus entering the storeroom, however, threw a wrench in the metaphorical gears.

It happened like this:

A figure appeared between the rows. The guard that spotted it determined the figure fulfilled the criteria of a) Not being a troll and b) sneakin’ around, if it had anything to say about it. 

It hefted a rock. The formula demanded completion. 

Suddenly, the figure jerked. It was… flailing? No, it was flapping its arms about, and shouting something. 

“Half a pound of tupenny rice!” it shouted. “Half a pound of treeeeacle!”

The troll stared. Its colleagues had by now crashed into its backside, and now, too, were gaping at this strange, red figure shouting and flailing. It was a not-troll, for sure. But it wasn’t runnin’. It certainly wasn’t sneakin’ around. And it wasn’t inna goutweed. 

This sequence of events had done to the trolls’ computational process as good a spilled glass of water did to a circuit.

“That’s the way the money gooooesssss…”

One of the slightly smarter trolls in the lot was trying to calculate a new outcome. If human + running = rock, and human + sneaking = rock, and human + flailing = x, when solving for x, then human + running = human + sneaking, cancel out the human, and action-based variables were determined to be roughly equivalent in the context of hitting widda rock…

He reached a conclusion, and for a particularly heavy stone. 

“Pop! Goes the — oh, bugger…”

* * *

The first hit wasn’t actually at all that bad. The helmet absorbed most of the impact, though the collision still made Teiran’s ears ring. 

“Thank you, thankyouverymuch,” she said. “I’m here all night!”

The second stone made her brain swim. However, she persisted. 

“Did you hear the one about the three goblins that walked into a bar?”

The other trolls seemed to be catching on. Two more rocks sailed toward her. One she managed to dodge, but the other one glanced a blow on the side of her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cyrisus make a dash towards the crate. 

_ C’mon, c’mon! _ The barrage of rocks was increasing — she dodged another one aimed at her head, just as a small pebble bounced off her platebody. 

Suddenly, she heard a yelp, and a heavy thud from the direction of the goutweed crate. 

_ Shit! _ She turned, and started to head towards the direction of the noise…

A final, heavy stone collided with the helmet. Teiran staggered and fell, her head swimming and her vision slowly darkening. 

_ Oh, godsdamnit… _

* * *

When Teiran woke up she was outside the storeroom. Cyrisus lay next to her, sporting a goose-egg comparable to her own. 

He sat up with a groan. 

“Did the helmet help, at least?” he said, rubbing his head. 

“Surprisingly well,” she said, taking it off. “It didn’t even dent.”

“That’s dragon metal for you,” he said, taking the armour back. 

She sighed, and looked to the storeroom door. “I suppose it’s just as well. Feeling up for round two?”

“No need.” He held out his hand. In it was a small, scrumpled, stinky sheaf of goutweed. 

A grin crept up on Teiran’s face. “You sneaky bastard. How did you get it before the guard hit you?”

“Being very quick,” he said. “I, er, would prefer not to do that again.”

“No need.” She took the herb, crushing it between her fingertips. She took out the vial of water and astral powder and stuffed the plant inside, corking it and giving it a vigorous shake. The potion hissed, before turning to a mucky brown colour.

“Right,” Teiran said. “Let’s do this.”


	4. Inadequacy

“I’m not sure about this.”

They were standing in front of the brazier, which was burning away merrily. Cyrisus had the potion in his hand, looking at it as though he were holding a bomb.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Teiran said. Partly inspired by the goutweed escapade, she’d equipped her own Helm of Neitiznot, along with the rest of her standard dragon armour. He’d stuck with the eclectic mix of Barrows equipment and the dragon helm. It was rather patchy, in her opinion, but then again, she’d seen people wear party hats to boss fights, so she wasn’t about to complain. 

“Are you really sure?” he asked. There was that look again — the one like a kicked dog. It was pathetic. Earlier, she might have even told him to give up at this point.

Then again, at that point she hadn’t seen him go down to a bunch of troll-infested caves with an offer of assistance... 

“I’m sure,” she said. Cyrisus breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Ok,” he said, uncorking the potion. He dumped it on the fire, which began to fill the room with a heavy smoke. “Here goes nothing.”

* * *

 _This_ dream world was much simpler than the previous one she’d encountered, Teiran reflected. There weren’t any ethereal ladies or doppelgangers or weird dice or annoying platforms filled with troys. That was an improvement.

The huge, horrible monster standing in front of them, however, wasn’t. 

_The Inadequacy,_ read the huge, glowing letters floating above it. It was easily four times the height of a human, with a bulbous fat body, multiple twitching limbs, horns that rounded its fat little head, topped with a gaping maw full of tusks and teeth.

“What,” Teiran said, her eyes wide, “on RuneScape is that? Cyrisus?”

She turned. “Cyrisus?”

His back was to the monster, and was instead staring, agape, at the glowing book pedestal behind them. 

“What a pretty lectern…” he said dreamily. 

“Cyrisus. Turn around. Please.”

He did so. As he spotted the monster, his face turned a pale shade of green. 

“What is that?!”

“I don’t know, it’s your dream!” she shouted. “You must have some deep-seated issues!”

“I…” He was shaking like a leaf, rooted in place as the monster loomed over them. “I…”

“C’mon. We can do this!” She grabbed her whip. “On the count of three. One… two…”

She charged at the monster with a roar, letting her whip lash out at it. The Inadequacy screeched and swiped back at her with one of its claws, bruising her through her chainbody. 

She grunted. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to kill me,” she growled. She reached into her pack and swigged a combat potion, before charging again. 

She landed another blow on the monster, which howled and slashed at her again. She rolled out of the way, and began to eye the next spot she’d attack. 

Something occurred to her. She glanced back to the lectern. Cyrisus stood in the same spot as he had before, cowering in fear. 

“Oh, for Guthix’s sake,” she muttered. She marched in front of the Inadequacy, which began to rain blows down on her. Ignoring the attacks, she turned her back to the monster and faced Cyrisus. 

“This is your fight, you know,” she said, crossing her arms. The monster struck her back, but she managed to maintain her balance. “I’m not going to win this for you.”

He looked up, his eyes filled with fear. “I….”

“No excuses. You’ve got the skills. You’ve got the equipment. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to beat this,” she said. “And I’m not going to make another attack on this thing until you fight alongside me.”

He stopped shaking, and a look of horror crossed his face. “But… you’ll die!”

She shrugged, grimacing through each hit from behind her. “So I will. Are you going to run from that, Cyrisus?”

He didn’t reply. The Inadequacy howled, striking endlessly, its claws clattering on her armour. Slithery Doubts (as so helpfully labeled by more glowing text) swarmed about, adding to the cacophony that filled the silence. 

_Ow,_ she internally grunted. While she could still handle the hits, her strength was definitely waning. 

“Well?” She asked. 

Cyrisus looked at the monstrosity. It loomed. Its mouth gibbered. The doubts still slithered about, almost snickering. 

He raised his abyssal whip, trembling as he did so. A feral scream rose from his mouth, and he lunged, charging…

Away from the monster, back towards the lectern. 

Teiran blinked. “Guardians preserve us,” she muttered. She turned back to the monster. “Men, am I right?”

The monster howled, but she only gave it a dirty look. “Oh, shut up, you.”

There was another howl — though not of a subconscious manifestation of fear and loathing. 

No, this was of a lunatic. 

Cyrisus leapt up onto the monster, wrapping his abyssal whip around the creature’s fat neck. With all his might, he attempted to strangle it.

The Inadequacy let out a gasping roar and tried to buck him off, but Cyrisus clung on, screaming madly. 

Teiran’s jaw dropped. An errant Doubt attempted to hit her; not looking away from the spectacle, she punched it away. 

The Inadequacy flailed, its tiny arms thrashing as Cyrisus tightened his grip. The, with a final, feral, strangled gasp, the monster froze — and poofed away, leaving Cyrisus tumbling to the ground. 

Teiran broke out of her trance and rushed over. 

“Are you alright?” She asked. His nose leaked blood, and he had several gashes on his face and arms, but he was grinning.

“That,” he said, “was terrifying.”

Teiran patted him on the back. “And stupid.”

He nodded. “I know!”

He inspected the whip, which was a little mangled, but none the worse for wear. Teiran offered him a hand, which he took, and he hefted himself up. 

“Here,” she said. “Let’s get back to the Lu—”

A gurgle from behind interrupted her. She turned. 

Another creature had appeared in the Inadequacy’s place. It looked like a translucent cross between a gorak and mole. 

_The Everlasting,_ the text above it read. 

_Yeesh,_ Teiran thought _. How many of these things are there going to be?_ She started to unfurl her whip once more, but Cyrisus stopped her. 

“I want to do this,” he said.

He had a new glint in his eye. Was it courage? Or had he just gone loony? She wasn’t entirely certain. 

“Are you sure?” He nodded.

“I am.”

* * *

The next three monsters went… quickly. Teiran watched idly, eating half a pizza while Cyrisus chased the Illusive around the dream pavilion. The Everlasting had gone down in less than half a dozen hits. The Untouchable took even fewer. This one would probably drop in just one strike, if it weren’t for it nasty habit of burrowing. 

His combat skills obviously surpassed hers. She estimated it took him a fraction of the time to defeat the monsters as she could have. The only reason he wasn’t wielding a Godsword, she reflected, was probably because he’d be terrified of it. 

_How the hell did he get so good at it?_ She wondered. _Blackmailing a genie, perhaps?_

The wormish monster squealed — Cyrisus had managed to lasso it, and was now slamming it on the ground repeatedly. It screeched again, before poofing away into a tiny grub, which began to hop away. 

Teiran lunged at it, snatching the creature by the tail before it could escape. Cyrisus jogged over. 

“It’s kind of sad, really,” he said, watching the wriggling creature struggle. “It was this big, nasty horrible thing at the start, but now it’s just this disgusting little bugger that can’t do much harm.”

“That’s what most fears are like,” Teiran said. “Will you do the honours?”

“Gladly.”

Teiran let go. The worm fell to the ground, where it was met by the solid thud of Cyrisus’ boot.

* * *

Teiran woke up, coughing the last of the dream-smoke from her lungs. Cyrisus wasn’t there.

She rose, and left the longhall. 

The village was much noisier than the dreamscape. The villagers chatted. Berty stomped around in his enclosure. Distantly, she heard the shouts of the suqahs. Even more distantly, she could hear the sea.

As she left the settlement, she spotted a dead suqah. She couldn’t help but grin. 

A trail of dead, dying, and otherwise incapacitated suqahs led her to the astral altar. The Oneiromancer did not greet her, but simply nodded towards the figure standing by the cliffside.

Cyrisus was watching the ocean. It was another overcast day, like nearly every other on Lunar Isle, and the waves sent a cold spray over the both of them as they crashed against the rocks. 

She watched with him, in silence, as the gulls cried overhead. The absence of the suqahs made it a little quieter than usual, and Teiran savored the peace.

“I really did it,” Cyrisus said, after a measure. “I ran up to... that _thing,_ and I beat it. And then I beat it again.”

He turned to her, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you.”

She turned away from him, so he wouldn’t see her burning face. “It was nothing, really,” she said. 

“Really,” Cyrisus said. “Teiran, I was terrified in there. I was about to turn tail and run or watch you finish off that thing for me. But then you…”

“Stopped and made you pitch in? Yes. I hate freeloaders.”

“No. It wasn’t that.”

“No?”

“You know,” he said, gazing out over the ocean again. “Why, when you turned and refused to fight, and that thing was hitting you over and over and you didn’t even budge, what made me turn back and fight?”

She considered this. _He’d better not say anything about a damsel in distress._

“Lemme guess,” she said, tapping her chin. “You didn’t think my stuff was worth looting?”

He grinned. “No.”

“Hmmmmm. You were afraid I’d come back and take out my bloody, bloody revenge on you?”

“No. But that’s a good one.”

She shrugged. “A wayward barbarian spirit got lost between the great mead hall in the sky and the Ancient Caverns and happened to possess you for a hot minute?”

“I don’t even know where you got that idea,” he laughed. “No. None of those.”

“Then what?”

“You were the first person who’s ever believed I could do it.”

The waves crashed against the cliffside. The gulls cried. In the distance, Berty let out an errant squawk.

 _It’s so godsdamn soppy_ , she thought. But he meant every word of it. She could see it in his eyes — they no longer had that dull look. Instead, they glittered with confidence. And probably a little bloodlust. That part was probably healthy for an adventurer. 

“So,” she said, carefully. “What now?”

He took a breath. “I’ve missed a lot. Being terrified of combat, and all,” he said. “I’ve never set foot in the Wilderness, or on Crandor. I’ve never tried my hand at Soul Wars. I wouldn’t even go near Port Khazard… but I can now. Thanks to you.”

She turned away, looking at the distant ocean. “You know, every ‘Thank you’ I consider as an invite for an extra charge. On my, uh, fee bill. For being extra grateful.”

“Oh! That!” Cyrisus started fishing around in his pockets. “Here, I’ll give you a note. If you talk to Bird’s-Eye Jack, he should let you into my bank again —” 

“No, no,” Teiran, shaking her head. “It’s fine. I wasn’t in it for the money.”

She was surprised as she said this. _Of course_ she’d been in it for the money. But he’d helped her out with the goutweed, and had gotten conked in the head for his troubles. That probably evened things out, she told herself.

“I have to thank you _somehow_ ,” Cyrisus said. “Here. I’ve picked up a lot on Gielinor. I can teach some of it to you.”

“What, like a class?” she asked, incredulous. “That’s kind, but I am rather busy —” 

“I know a faster way. Hold still.”

Before she could protest, Teiran felt a bolt of energy hit her head. She felt like she’s read six books at once, taken the Dig Site exam again, and then sat through one of Mr. Mordaut’s lessons on theoretical alchemy. 

“Ooo-er,” she groaned, clutching her head. “That felt weird.”

“Are you ok?” Cyrisus asked, concern rising in his voice. 

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Feel… enlightened…”

“Ah, good. That was the point.”

“Never do that again, please,” Teiran said, rubbing her temples. 

“No promises,” he said. “Anyways, I think I’ll be off.”

“Oh,” she said, taken aback. “Leaving so soon?”

“Yes. There’s a world to explore out there.” He glanced over the ocean again. The sun had managed to peek through a few clouds, and in the distance, if she squinted, Teiran could see Pirate’s Cove. Beyond that, Rellekka. 

“Well then,” she said, a little quieter than she was used to. “Good luck.”

“Yes,” he said. For some reason, he avoided her gaze. “You can, uh, contact me by the Contact spell. Like you did before. If, uh, you want to talk.”

“Sure.” She, too, was struggling not to make eye contact. 

They stood in silence, awkwardly, until Teiran stuck out her hand.

“See you soon?” she said, he shook it. His hand was soft, but she could feel the first few calluses forming already. Combat did do a body hard. 

“See you soon,” he grinned. And with that, he vanished, teleporting off to lands unknown. 


	5. Aye Car Rum Ba

The next two weeks were… quiet. She avoided Lunar Isle on the principle that there wasn’t much else particularly to do there, other than craft runes and kill suqahs and listen to Meteora rant about invisible demons in the water. 

Miscellania and Etcetria were as functionally dysfunctional as ever, and she popped in now and again to cut wood and keep the approval rating up. She helped Bruntmeat’s stupid troll assistant farm some goutweed, which hopefully meant that she wouldn’t have to go down to the damn storeroom and get hit in the head again. She worked on firemaking, relishing the mindlessness of it all. 

About a week in, Teiran stopped by the Grand Exchange, among the shouting traders and flower gamblers and scammers, to trade off the approximately 974 maple logs she’d accumulated while skilling when a scarlet-red helm caught her eye. She stared at it, long and hard, before muttering something about a balanced loadout. 

Later, when she stopped by Nardah while making a trip back to the enchanted mirrors — Ancient Magicks were an art that still eluded her — she was almost immediately accosted by Rokuh. 

“Choc-ice for the pretty lady?” he grinned, proffering a bar. “Good for a hot day, it’ll quench your thirst in the desert!”

She was about to refuse, saying her waterskins were nearly full, and she was about to leave anyway, but, for some reason, she stopped.

“Fine,” she said, digging in her coin pouch. “One, please.”

She ate it in the cool mist of the fountain, watching children chase lizards in the dusty streets.

* * *

When next morning dawned grey and moody, and Teiran reckoned she wanted a rest. When this was the case, she always did the same thing: She went to Rellekka, sat on a rock on the hill below the Muspah’s cave, and watched the world go by. 

She liked to use this time to think. Some days she’d be there for about 15 minutes before she became restless and sought out something else. Other times, she would sit for hours, even after her legs grew numb and her fingers grew cold. 

How long had she been at this? Ten years since she’d teleported off of Tutorial Island and landed arse-first in Lumbridge? Things had been… simpler, then. Kill some cows. Kill some goblins. Kill some chickens. 

Back then, she’d been giddy just to get an iron dagger as loot. Now, she’d seen things. She’d watched the world be created, and the first humans stumble into it as blindly as she had when she had started out. She’d seen the rotted waste of Morytania, and how it seemed to swallow and decay anything it touched — people included. She’d discovered the land of the elves, after fighting her way over a wobbly bunch of planks and yittering, mad cultists. 

She’d cleared feuds. She’d solved mysteries. She’d fetched things and been turned into a monkey and fought monsters made of shadow. She’d helped a werewolf Santa Claus rescue a bunch of children from a goblin-thingie… Yeah. That last one had been a little weird.

A lot had happened. A lot more still needed to. But Teiran almost couldn’t bring herself to admit it: She was _bored._ Sure, now and again some new land would be discovered and she’d take the call to go investigate, but then so-and-so would need this thing, and _this_ island would be exactly like the last but with zombies or something, and after a while it all seemed to blur together.

She sighed. Maybe she should retire. Invest all her money in Miscellania stock. Build out her house with every available outfitting possible. Sleep in and eat chocolate cake for breakfast every day. 

No. She couldn’t do that. She’d jump out of the window from cabin fever before the first day was done. 

_Maybe I just need a break,_ she thought. 

“The view up here is really quite nice, you know.”

Her reaction was instant: Whip _out_ , slash _back_ , turn around and be ready for a fight — 

Cyrisus was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, Teiran’s abyssal whip lashed around his ankle. He was grinning, sheepishly. 

Teiran tugged back her weapon, reattaching it to her belt. “It’s not polite,” she said, “or _safe,_ to sneak up on a lady like that, you know.”

“I should have gathered,” he said, standing up. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“If there is a next time,” she said. “I could shove you off this cliff right now if I wanted to, you know. No witnesses. Perfect alibi.”

He chuckled nervously. “Look, if you don’t want me around, just say so, and I’ll g —”

“No,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly. “I’m just… testy. I don’t like being snuck up on.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking a seat beside her. “I truly am.”

“It’s fine.” The sun was starting to set, turning the ocean a blazing orange-pink as it dipped below the horizon. _Good day for fishing,_ she thought to herself. Then again, every day was. 

“So,” she said. “What brings you to sneak up on a poor, innocent woman all alone in the world with nothing to defend herself?”

“An action I regret,” he said. “And I just wanted to check in. See what you were up to. I was hoping you’d give me a ring on the Contact spell at some point.”

“Oh,” she said. “That spell. Totally forgot.”

That was a lie. She’d already used it pretty frequently that week — once to bug Chaeldar for a new assignment, thrice to check on a herb patch and half a dozen times to prank-call Blurberry. She had, however, been deliberate about not calling a certain adventurer.

“I figured you were busy,” Cyrisus said. 

“Yes,” Teiran said. “Busy. Very.”

“What have you been up to?”

“Oh. Things,” she said. “Making potions. Cutting trees. Fighting giant birds. All that.”

“Oh,” he said. “You make it sound terribly mundane.”

_It is,_ she thought. _After awhile every fight becomes the same. Dodge and stab. Stab and dodge. Eat shark. Drink potion. Rinse and repeat._

“I’ve, uh, been fighting things too,” Cyrisus said. 

“Oh?”

“Just. Uh. Some hill giants. And a journeyman here and there.  And the King Black Dragon though that probably doesn't matter much... 

“Eh? What was that last bit?”

“Dragons,” he said. “Small ones.”

“That’s good. You’re working your way up.”

“Yeah.”

The two sat in silence again. They were good at that, Teiran supposed, as her mind wheeled wildly for things to talk about.

_What is with this bloke?_ She thought. _I can’t get two damn words out of him._ She paused. _Or me, for that matter._

An errant idea bloomed. _Maybe…_

Logic arrived, with the weedkiller of reason. _No._

Dandelionishly, however, the idea persisted. _Perhaps…_

Logic tried again, and failed. 

_Ah, Saradomin-damn it all,_ Teiran conceded. 

“Don’t I owe you a drink?”

* * *

They’d ended up at the Blue Moon inn, which was really the only way you could really get there. Nobody ever purposefully went to the Blue Moon inn. You ended up there, like flotsam on the unforgiving briny currents of existence.

Existence had also washed up a pint. It wasn’t _too_ terrible, so long as you didn’t watch how the barkeep cleaned the glasses.

“Y’know,” she said, “Ardougne has a great little pub near the castle. Flying Horse. They make a very good suicide cocktail.”

“Absolutely not,” Cyrisus said. He, too, was avoiding looking at the barkeep, who apparently thought the dishrag he’d been holding made an excellent face wipe. 

“And why is that?”

Cyrisus thought for a moment. “I’ve got a tab. Big one. Very big. Long as Falador park.”

She didn’t buy it for a moment, but she decided to let it slide. _Probably broke a table there or something_. 

“Besides,” he continued. “I suggested we go to Blurberry’s. His gnomish mixers are the best thing north of Catherby. But you said ‘under no circumstances.’”

Teiran thought back to Contact spell shenanigans. True, was pretty sure the gnome wouldn’t recognize her — she had held her nose, following the cardinal rule of prank calls — but it was a risk she wasn’t willing to take. 

“Allergies,” she lied. “Terrible allergies. It’s the Dwellberries, see? And they never wash the shakers properly, and all it takes is a little bit before I’m all puffed up like a b —”

“I get it,” he said. “I’m just glad we could find a spot we could agree on.”

_Yeah,_ she thought. _Agree to never go back here again._ _Does RuneScape have a food licensing board? Maybe I should form one._

She took another sip of beer and tried not to think of cows. Or piss. Or any combination of the two. 

“So,” she said. “Where are you from?”

“Ardougne,” he said. “Er, that’s why I have that bar tab.”

_Sure you do._ “What did you do before you went adventuring?”

“Worked, mostly. I helped around the northern farms. Did a stint on a charter ship. Odd things, here and there.”

He was avoiding something, she knew it. Pressing him would probably make him uncomfortable, she reckoned, so she instead took another sip of the horrible beer. 

“Where are you from?” he asked. 

“Tutorial Island,” she said. “My parents were crafting instructors, but nobody ever came round to learn anything, so they just retired early.”

“What was it like?”

Teiran sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Boring,” she exhaled. “Nothing to do but watch people get stuck behind that one stupid stile because they didn’t know to climb, and burn shrimp over and over, or complain about how boring Tutorial Island is.”

“Is that why you left?”

“Precisely. The first chance I got, I teleported out with the shirt on my back.” She shook her head, grumbling. “Had to go through all the damn trials like some sort of newbie… burned bread, killing chickens through a prison grate…”

She finished off the last of the dreadful beer, regretting that she had to drink the whole thing to get to the bottom. 

“Look, I’ll be honest,” she said. “This place is the pits. I know a dive around Musa Point. It’s a bit of a hole in the wall, but it’s by a banana plantation, and it’s one of the only places in Gielinor with rum.”

Cyrisus too finished his beer with a grimace. “I’m game,” he said. “Here, I’ll teleport us.”

“Wai —” Teiran protested, but he’d already grabbed her arm. The dingy interior of the bar and the associated smells of smoke, vomit and chemical-smelling beer dissolved around them, replaced by the damp, muddy smell of the jungle and the palm trees that it constituted. 

Teiran wrenched away from his grip. “You’ve got to give me more warning next time!” she yelled. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I wanted to get out of there as soon as humanly possible, to be honest.”

She huffed. “I did, too. But I forgot to pay the bartender.”

Cyrisus cursed. “Here, I can take us back real quick —”

“No, no,” she waved it away. “It’s fine. Not much point in me going back there anyways. The beer was horrible. I’ll just add it to the list.”

With that, Teiran produced a small notebook and wrote down _Blue Moon Inn,_ right after _Blurberry’s, Rellekka Long Hall,_ and _Laughing Miner (Do not ask about Mrs. Batta)._

“Right,” she said. She turned and kicked a nearby tree. It shook, and a bunch of bananas dropped down. 

“Here,” she said, handing him one. He started at it.

“I thought we were drinking?” he asked. 

“We are. You’ll see.”

The building she stepped into was almost too dingy to be considered a bar, but at least the bartender looked like he’d had a bath within the last week. _In any case,_ she thought, as she ordered a bottle of Karamja’s Finest, _this will probably kill anything it comes into contact with. Besides us, probably._

“Ok,” she said, handing him the rum. “Stick the banana in.”

“Whole?” he asked. She shook her head. 

“Rookie mistake. No, you slice them. Here.” She put the banana bits in and gave the bottle a good shake before handing it over.

He took a sip. “Not bad. It tastes like weapon cleaner.” He paused. “With a not-at-all unpleasant bananary aftertaste.”

“See? I knew you’d like it!” she slapped him on the back. “Bartender? Another round. I’ll pay you up front.”

* * *

It was an… interesting night. 

It took them three rums (each) to get to the arm wrestling contest. They were glaring at each other now, their arm muscles bulging. Neither of them budged. 

“If I win,” she growled through clenched teeth, “I get your Barrows’ equipment.”

“Fine,” he hissed. “And if I win…” He looked her up and down. “I get your hat.”

Something within her stirred, and her eye twitched. With a roar, she slammed his arm down onto the table, scraping the knuckles on the wood.

“Ow!” he yelled, sucking his hand. “That was a bit of overkill.”

“I hear someone not going to the bank for their Barrows armour,” she teased. 

“Fine, fine. I’ll give it to you in the morning.” He took another swig of rum, and then poured a little on his bleeding knuckles, wincing as he did so. “How did you do it? I’m sure my strength is better than yours.”

She smirked. “Yes, but I’m more stubborn.” She touched the cavalier resting on her head. Despite all it had been through, its feather was still fresh as the day she’d bought it, and its brim remained untattered. 

“And I really, really like my hat.”

* * *

Six bottles of rum in. The room was definitely getting a little hazier. _Bloody Karamjan heat,_ Teiran thought, blearily. _S’not fair, it being this damn hot._

Cyrisus wasn’t faring much better — he was about half a bottle ahead. 

“Sho,” he slurred. “Th’ wassha name. Head thingy. Haaaaaaat.”

Teiran drunkenly, protectively reached for it. “Whattaabout it?” she mumbled. “Sh’my hat. Sh’ nothin special.”

“S’ nice,” he stuttered. “Sh’ like. You get inna. Wossit. The chest-thingieish. Where you follow mapsh n’ shtuff.”

“Oh. Thosesh. Treasure trailsh,” Teiran said. “Naw, I don’t have th’ patiensh for that. Too many bloody puzzlesh.”

“Howdya gettit?”

She looked back and forth, furtively. “Ya really wanna know?”

He nodded, feverently. 

“Ok.” She gave the room a quick evaluation again. It was empty, save for them, the barkeep, and an errant monkey idling on a barrel in the corner, attempting to shell a peanut. _S’secure as it’ll ever be._

“Kebbitsh.”

“Kebbitsh?”

“Kebbitsh,” she said, conclusively. “Polar kebbitsh. Hunted ‘em. Shold their fur. Saved up.”

“How much was it?” he asked. “The hat.”

“Oh,” she said, racking her brain. “Bout, uh, 500k. Give or take a 100k or sho.”

Something like that should have been small change to him, some dim part of her mind told her. Instead, he seemed to be genuinely taken aback. 

“Wait,” he stammered. “500k? If kebbitish are 3,000 a pelt, thatsh….” He attempted to do some maths on his fingers, and failed. “Thatsh a lot of kebbitsh,” he said.*

Teiran nodded. “Shilly, isn’t it?”

Cyrisus shook his head wildly. “No, no, no. Thatsh… thatsh amazing.”

She felt her face burn, but this time she didn’t have the sense to turn away. “Really?”

“Really,” he said. “It musht have taken you forever. No wonder you like that hat.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. 

“You’re really amazing, Teiran,” he said. “You found me in that cave, all banged up, and you shaved — _saved —_ me. Bugger.”

“S’ no biggie,” she said. She could feel the effects of the alcohol starting to wear off, replaced by the beginnings of what was promising to be a massive, Karamjan headache. 

“Tell me,” she said, carefully. “When you were in th’cave… You wouldn’t eat the same food twice. I thought you were awful picky for someone starving. I’ve seen folks in better shape nearly shwallow burned chicken whole.”

At this, Cyrisus’ face darkened. “Rat meat,” he said. 

“Pardon?”

“Rat meat,” he repeated. "It wash… place with the dwarves. Katherine. Kelly. Keldagrim. I wash helping them move this new rail plashement, and… I fell. Inna hole. Mine shaft. Got stuck for three weeks.”

“Three weeks?”

“Three weeksh. Ate nothing but rats. Day after day. Rat, rat rat,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “I’d never bothered with cookin’ much at that point, but after that, by gods, I could cook any dish shix ways. And I did. Just so long as it wasn’t. Bloody. Rat. Or th’ shame bloody thing twish inna row.”

“Sorry, mate,” she said, patting him on the arm. “I’d go mad too, ‘f that were me.”

“S’not your fault,” he said. “You were the one puttin’ up with me being fussy about food.”

Teiran shrugged. “What’s a bank full of fishes for?”

He grinned. “Alright. Your turn again. You gotta say something about yourself.”

Teiran thought about it. “You’ll never believe this.”

“Try me.”

“Right. I’ve got a birthmark.”

“Ok?”

“Of the River Lum.”

“Oh?”

“On the back of my left thigh.”

She grinned tipsily. Cyrisus, however, had turned quite scarlet. 

“That’s. Erm. Very nice,” he muttered. “The River Lum?”

“No lie,” she said. “Don’t needa bloody truth serum for that.”

Cyrisus took another sip of rum, grimacing at the taste of weapons cleaner.

“Your turn,” Teiran said, to which Cyrisus breathed a sigh of relief.

“Awright,” she said. “You’ve got, like, wicked combat skills. But before all this, you couldn’t even fight a rock crab. So — how’d you do it?”

Cyrisus paled. “I —”

“Did ya bribe a genie?” Teiran slurred. “Or did you just practice on those dummy-thingies a lot? Useful things, thoshe dummies.”

Cyrisus didn’t seem to be listening. “Listen, I, uh. I have to go.”

“Wait!” she grabbed his arm. “Don’t go.”

What was that in his eyes? Drunkenness? Terror? Or something else? She couldn’t tell through the heavy haze of alcohol. He waved his hand, muttering the incantation for _Cure Group_. 

“There,” he said, his voice considerably sharper. “Listen, I’m sorry. I should have left you alone today. I don’t think you’ll have a hangover tomorrow, but you should probably take it easy.”

Teiran’s head cleared just in time to see him start to teleport. 

“Cyrisus!” she yelled. “Don’t leave. I’m sor—”

But before she could finish, he was gone.

* * *

*Depending on GE fluctuation rates at the time this story takes place, it would take about 167 polar kebbit pelts to finance a black cavalier. That's about seven bank trips, accounting for the inventory space needed for the noose wand.


	6. Hell's Bells

She woke up in a banana crate. 

Teiran blinked, blearily. It smelled of salt-water and cabbage.  _ I must be in Port Sarim, _ she thought. 

As she got up, something clinked underneath her. She fished around, and her hands closed on a familiar glass container.

It was hard to smuggle rum out of Karamja. A bottle could easily fetch a fortune on the mainland black market. However, Teiran lobbed it, disgusted, over the edge of the dock, where it sank into the water with wet gulp.

_ Stupid! _ She thought, as she stomped angrily down the port, smelling of bruised bananas and ignoring the curses of sailors and pirates she bowled out of the way in her rage.  _ You never should have asked him! You should have called him in the week and kept it to pleasantries!  _

She wasn’t sure why she was so cross. Undeniably, incredibly cross. She also wasn’t quite sure at whom. 

_ His hand had been soft, but it was already getting rough, after his first battle… _

Why was she thinking about that? It had been a handshake, for Guthix’s sake. About as personal and intimate as a formal letter between two foreign dignitaries discussing this year’s flax harvest. It was a nicety, if anything. Nothing more. 

She passed by the Rusty Anchor, and she thought, momentarily, of the hair of the dog. She wasn’t sure if it actually worked, but any excuse to drink now would be a good one. 

She was, however, conspicuously missing the throbbing headache and fervent desire for death that usually accompanied a Karamjan Rum hangover. Had it been the bananas? No, Cyrisus had done something. Cast a spell, right before he — 

_ No, _ her thoughts cut in.  _ You are not going to think about him. That’s what got you into the mess, getting all soppy like that. You’ve got no room for soppiness. _

The thoughts were cruel, she conceded, but they were right. Miscellania was probably in tatters. She had a curry tree in Catherby that she’d neglected. She was running low on Cosmic runes, and she still had a bunch of teak to sell, and…

_ Busy, _ she thought, as she started planning out her route for the day.  _ Stay busy. _

* * *

She did stay busy. Mostly. 

True, she didn’t do as much pickpocketing as she usually did, what with avoiding Ardougne, but there was all that business with King Tyras and his brother, and with all the politics it was probably best she stayed away. Same with the Blue Moon Inn — that bartender, she was sure, wouldn’t be happy to see her, even if she  _ had _ slipped a sack of gold under the door (with interest) under the door in the dead of night with an apologetic note.

She didn’t even touch Karamja. Too hot, too many bugs. At least, that’s what she told herself.

She’d gotten a call, at one point, three days after The Rum Incident. It was a little odd, going about her day and having the Lunar Customer Support Lady’s voice speak directly into her head.

“Call for you, dear,” she said. “From a nice chap named Cyrisus. He seemed rather worried.”

Teiran’s mouth went dry. “I, uh…”

“Better make a decision soon, dear. The magic’s running out.”

After a brief internal conflict, she nodded. “Ok.”

“Very good! Now, let me jus —”

Her ears suddenly buzzed, and she heard a faint popping sound, followed by an automated  _ Your call has been disconnected _ message. 

Teiran cursed, rushing to the nearest bank. By the time she’d gotten the runes for a Contact spell, however, and pulled up the interface, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

Instead, she called Evil Dave and convinced him she was Zamorak. 

It was kind of funny. But not the same.

* * *

Somehow she found time to sit on the cliffside in Rellekka. She shouldn’t have, honestly — she had a court summons from Seer’s Village sitting in her bank, there was a shooting star over Al Kharid, and she was sure that the compost she’d left marinating by Castle Fenkenstrain was finished by now — but, honestly, she needed time to think. 

It was foggier than usual today. Teiran could barely see the village rooftops through the mists and the fire-smoke, much less the boats in the port, or Lunar Isle.

Why was she thinking of Lunar Isle? It was far off. She didn’t need any astral runes, or essence, or gems, or any reason to go down into the mines. Or that cave. At all. 

Teiran sighed, leaning back on a rock that was a great deal more comfortable than the thoughts in her head. 

Was it something she’d said? If it was, should she really devote this much headspace to a man that sensitive? Or was it something else?

She tried to think back to that night, through the haze of rum and dreadful beer. Something about her hat… and rats… or was it cats? And some person named Kelly. Or Katherine. Yes. That was it. Maybe he had someone he was interested in and he was too embarrassed to admit it. He had been blushing rather a lot…

She entertained these thoughts for a little, before giving them the dirty a host does when indicating to guests that they have work in the morning and should thus vacate. 

_ I should be getting to that compost, _ she told herself as she got up to leave.  _ And that curry tree probably wants trimming, and I haven’t checked Canifis for penguins… _

A high-pitched cry interrupted her thoughts. It was screechier than the gulls, and was echoing from the mountains behind her. It sounded human. 

“Heeeeeelp! Heeeeeeeeeeelp meeeeee!”

Teiran leapt to her feet, and dashed over the rocks towards the scream. “Hello?!” she called out. 

“Hello!” the voice echoed back. 

“Stay where you are!” she shouted. “I’m coming for you!”

The voice mumbled something she couldn’t hear. She trudged, as quickly as should could, through the snow up the mountain.

_ It’s probably a hurt adventurer, _ she thought.  _ They must have got lost fighting trolls, or running from suqahs… _

No. There weren’t any suqahs on the mainland. Why was she thinking of suqahs? And why was her heart racing?

“Help!” the voice called again, this time louder. It seemed to be coming from under a large evergreen on the mountainside, its branches draped with snow.

_ He’s probably underneath there. Hurt. And cold. And scared. Maybe I should fetch some food? Maybe some fish, and some biscuits… _

Teiran reached the tree. She clicked her fingers, summoning a fire spell that immediately began to melt the snow. 

“Are you here?” she said, pulling aside a now-dripping branch. “Don’t be afraid. Everything’s going to be al—” 

There was nobody there. She scanned the underneath of the tree confusedly, and wondered if her hearing was off. 

“Help!” a voice above her said. “Ow, that’s my spleen!”

Teiran looked up. Sitting on a branch, swaying tipsily, was a parrot. 

“Who’s a pretty  _ PLEASE DON’T HURT ME _ then?” it squawked.

She shouldn’t have been this disappointed by a parrot, Teiran thought, as she snatched the bird from its perch. She probably should be thankful it had managed to escape Burntmeat’s stewpot after being roped into playing a fake human for Eadgar’s little ruse. 

Still, she couldn’t deny the sinking feeling in her stomach that she’d felt once she’d spotted it.

She looked at the bird in her hand. It was warbling drunkenly and shivering from the chill. The Fremennik province was no place for a tropical creature. 

Teiran felt a pang of guilt. She couldn’t release it into Karamja — it was clearly too domesticated to live in the wild. She didn’t know a thing about birdkeeping, so keeping it as a pet was probably out of the question. 

The parrot burped. Teiran sighed, and cast  _ Cure  _ on it. The bird hiccuped, and fell asleep. 

She had to take it back to where she got it — the Ardougne Zoo. Which, at the moment, was highly inconvenient. 

_ Five minutes, _ she thought.  _ He’s probably off fighting, oh, I don’t know, cockroach workers or something. Five minutes, and I’ll teleport out without so much as a footprint left behind.  _

She looked down at the sleeping parrot in her hand, and wondered why she knew  _ Cure _ would make it sober again. 

“Alright, buddy,” she said. “Let’s get you home.”

* * *

Parroty Pete squinted at her.  “Aren’t you the one who said they were taking that drunk parrot to the vet," he said, "only the vet said he never got any visitors and I didn’t see that bird since then?”

Teiran tried to keep a straight face, and vehemently wished she’d brought the Ring of Charos (a). 

“It’s the hat,” she said. “Very distinctive. Black cavaliers are all the rage now. It’s easy to mix someone up, if they’re wearing the same hat.”

Parroty Pete scrutinized her for a moment more, before taking the parrot from her hands. 

“Who’s a pretty boy?” It chirped. “Ow, my kidneys!” 

The zookeeper gave her an even more dubious look. “Where did you say you found it again?”

Teiran thought quickly. “The market square.”

The mortality rate of the average righteous guard was a well known statistic among Ardougne’s populace. “Alright then,” Pete said. 

He opened the aviary hatch and returned the parrot to its brethren, who were immediately educated in the various noises of troll-induced torture. 

“We shouldn’t have any more incidents,” Pete said, pointedly locking the hatch and returning the key to a loop on his belt. “Thank you for returning the bird. Good day.”

Teiran breathed a sigh of relief. If Burntmeat kept to his promise, then she wouldn’t need another substitute human. And if she had anything to say about, she would never have anything to do with goutweed ever again. 

She turned. The zoo was busy today — a gaggle of schoolchildren were hooting at the monkeys. An old couple was admiring the unicorns. And by the ferrets — 

No. It  _ couldn’t _ be him. The man standing by the exhibit wasn’t wearing a dragon h— ah, wait. He was holding it in his hands, probably so he could see better. 

It was him. No doubt. Cyrisus had his back to her, a small mercy, but still too close for comfort. 

She scanned the park for exits. The north gate was blocked by school children, who had grown bored of the monkeys and were now demanding their teacher for ice cream. The exit by the penguins… no, that would take her right past him. 

She’d have to teleport out. As quietly as she could, she rummaged around in her bag. Shark, banana, weeds, empty vial, choc-ice wrapper… where the hell were her law runes? 

“Teiran!” A familiar, crazed voice called out to her. She looked up. 

“Larry!” she hissed. “Now isn’t the time!”

“I’m just checking in! Have you seen any —” his eyes darted back and forth conspiratorially — “You-know-whats?”

“Now, sorry, I haven’t!” She growled. Cyrisus seemed to have heard the commotion.  _ Don’t turn, don’t turn, don’t turn… _

She grabbed Larry by the collar and dragged him behind the snake display. 

“Larry,” she hissed. “My position’s been compromised. Ix-nay on the alking-to-me-tay.”

He nodded madly. “This meeting never happened, agent!” he chirped, and he took off toward the penguin display. 

Teiran exhaled, finally locating a law rune in the jumble of her bag. With any luck, she’d be on Waterbirth Island within the next six seconds. 

“Teiran?”

She looked up. Cyrisus was standing next to her, a confused expression on his face.

_ Shit. _

“I thought it was you,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Teiran leapt to her feet, nearly bowling over a druidess who’d been admiring the snakes. “I, uh, have to leave,” she said, getting ready to cast the teleport spell. 

“Wait!” he said, reaching out, but not touching her. “Don’t go.”

She froze. “What do you want?”

He avoided her gaze. “If you’re cross with me, you have every right to.”

“I’m not,” she said quickly. That was half a lie. 

“Oh. I thought you were.”

“Why would you think so?”

“Ah… you didn’t answer my Contact spell. I was worried you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

“Oh. That,” she said. “I was busy. Er. Fighting a giant… giant.”

“A giant giant?” He said, carefully.

“Yes. Enormous. Big as a windmill. I was so busy fighting it that I couldn’t answer.”

“Oh,” he said. “You’ll have to tell— I mean.” He coughed, awkwardly. “Anyways, I wanted to apologize. For the other night. I shouldn’t have run off like that. And. Uh. I still owe you.”

Before she could ask what he was talking about, he pulled out a chest and handed it to her. As she took it, she noticed it was quite heavy. 

She lifted the lid. A full set of greenish robes, a maul, a brassard…

“I wasn’t able to get all of Verac’s set yet,” he said, as recollection unfolded in Teiran’s horrified consciousness. “I’m still working on that bit.”

She snapped the lid shut. “Absolutely not.”

“Why? You won that bet, fair and square.”

“You were drunk.”

“So were you.”

“What difference does that make?”

He paused. “You bet your hat.”

“I did.” She gripped the brim. “And if you had won, would you have held me to it?”

He sighed. “No.”

“Then you have your answer.”

She handed the chest back to him. They said nothing, each waiting for the other to make a move. 

Behind them, the snakes hissed. The caged jogre grunted, while the unicorns snorted and pawed the ground. The parrots, now sufficiently instructed in the sounds of troll torture, filled the park with a chorus of agonized screams and pleas for mercy. 

Teiran could barely hear herself think. In the direction of the primate enclosure, something screeched — perhaps a monkey. Perhaps a schoolchild. She couldn’t tell. 

“Look,” she said. “Can we go somewhere a little quieter? To talk?”

Cyrisus nodded slowly, and extended a hand. “I’m going to teleport us, if that’s alright with you.”

“Ok.”

She took his hand. It was definitely more calloused now — and, she realized, still rough around the knuckles where they’d slammed onto a rough Karamjan bar table. 

“Ready?” He asked. She nodded.

The world whooshed around them, and the cacophony of the zoo was replaced by a quiet gurgling. They reappeared on a bridge — one that filled her with nostalgia. 

“Oh. Lumbridge,” she said, letting go of his hand and leaning over the side. “Good choice.”

“Thanks,” he said, leaning beside her. 

It had been awhile since she’d visited the little town, but it hadn’t changed a day since she’d arrived on the mainland. The ducks still quacked. The ducklings still  _ eeped _ in reply. The Doomsayer still thumped on his box and shouted about the Wilderness ditch. The goblins were a little quieter than usual — they’d retreated to the ruined buildings to sleep off the late afternoon.

Teiran watched the river flow, as the trout within fought the current. 

“I used to fish here for hours,” she said. “I’d catch and cook and catch and cook… well, really, I’d mostly burn them.” She smiled. “And the only thing that would stop me was the sunset or the Sandwich Lady.”

Cyrisus laughed. “I know the feeling. For me, it was enchanting jewelry. Ring after ring, necklace after necklace.. I’ve probably gone through enough cosmic runes to fill the Wizard’s Tower.”

They stood in silence again, filled only by the quiet gurgling of the river.

“Teiran,” Cyrisus said. “What am I to you?”

She glanced over to him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” he paused. “Am I… a friend? Or am I just some dying bloke you found in a cave you happened to owe a drink?”

She looked down to the river again. “I don’t know.”

Below, one of the ducks squabbled with a trout for an old piece of bait. After a measure, the fish gave up, and swam upstream to harass a tree root. 

“When you found me in the cave,” he said, slowly. “What did you think of me?”

What did she say? That she lied to him to keep his morale high? No. That wasn’t true — not entirely. While he  _ had _ looked halfway through Death’s door, he was actually rather nice. In a bashful, almost incompetent kind of way. 

And he cared. She could tell that from the moment he’d showed up in Trollheim with a choc-ice. 

She decided to be truthful. 

“You were…” she paused, mulling over the right words. “Kind of pathetic, honestly.”

He didn’t react other than nodding slowly. “I figured.”

“It was kind of surprising,” she added.

“Really? How?”

“It’s just… you’re the skilled person I’ve known. Personally, at least. You could run circles around me in practically every task there is, and yet…” she sighed. “You looked like you thought of yourself as a useless sack of rubbish.”

“I was.”

She gave him a hard look. “No. You weren’t.”

“I still am.”

“Stop it,” she said. “You’ve got to quit this… wallowing-in-shame thing. You’re a perfectly damn capable person. You are now, and you were down in that cave.”

“It’s not that,” he said. “I did feel useless down there. But I think I’ve gotten better. At not feeling useless, I mean. I just…”

He paused, his expression conflicted.

“I admire you.”

Teiran caught herself before she fell into the river.  _ That came out of bloody-well nowhere, _ she thought, desperately clinging onto the stone arches of the bridge. 

“Why?” she asked, bewilderedly. “Like I said — you’re better than me at probably every skill there is. If we went to the Duel Arena right now, you’d probably beat me, hands-down.”

“True. But you had something I didn’t have. Confidence.”

He turned to her, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice her now-scarlet face.

“Teiran, why did you decide to become an adventurer?”

She shrugged. “Boredom. And my parents told me I would be bad at it.”

“Isn’t that discouraging?”

“For some, I guess,” she said. “Me? I just got angry. I wanted to prove them wrong.”

She paused. “I suppose you don’t think very rationally when you’re 21, but I told myself that I’d become the best adventurer of them all, just to spite them.”

“You succeeded. At the adventurer part, I mean.”

She coughed, awkwardly. “That’s, um, nice of you. But I haven’t even gotten a skillcape yet.”

“Skillcapes aren’t everything.”

“Neither is combat.”

He didn’t reply. The river still gurgled below them. 

“I want to get to know you better,” he said, suddenly. “I’m worried we got off on the wrong foot.”

“We didn’t,” she said. “It just… got mucky.”  _ Half a dozen Karamjan rums will do that to you.  _ “I was worried I scared you off.”

“You didn’t,” he said quickly. “I...” he paused. “Oh, never mind.”

She could pry, she reflected, but she decided to leave it at that. 

“I want to know you better, too,” she said. “Maybe... we can meet? Do something together?”

His cheeks flushed.  _ Does he think I’m going to want to spend the whole time fighting monsters? _ She thought.  _ I mean, he’s not scared of combat anymore, but maybe he’s worried I’ll suggest something too strong for him.  _

“Anything you’re up for, of course,” she added. 

He nodded. “Ok.” He paused. “Next week? Same time? Same place?”

“Yeah. That works.”

They stood in awkward silence. Teiran hoped that this wouldn’t become a regular occurrence. 

“See you soon, then,” she said. “Try not to die.”

“I’ll do my best,” he grinned. “The Barrows armour offer still stands.”

She turned and started to leave, struggling to hide her now totally-crimson face.

“And it remains rejected!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No parrots were harmed in the writing of this chapter.


	7. The Mad Mole

That week was the slowest Teiran ever had to endure in her entire existence. 

Oh, sure, she tried to fill it with distractions, like killing Bork and fighting evil trees and visiting Juna down in the swamp caves. Pulling up Contact half a dozen times a day also kept her occupied, yes, as did staring at it for five minutes straight. Of course, she would always just end up prank-calling the Lumbridge Sage  _ again,  _ which passed the hours in terrible, anxious ways. 

Four days in, she was resolved to watching her marrentill grow in the Catherby herb patch for the afternoon when she felt the ring of the Contact spell in her head. 

“Call for you, dear,” the Lunar Support Lady said. “It’s that Cyrisus fellow again.”

“I’ll take it,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly. The lady’s voice fizzed away, and was replaced by the sound of what sounded like a bag full of crickets.

“Hello?” Teiran called out. She heard Cyrisus yelling. “Take that, you bug! Can’t run without legs, can you?”

“Hey!” She shouted. She heard the sound of frantic footsteps, and then Cyrisus’ voice again. 

“Oh, hello! You picked up!” he said. “How have you been?”

“I’m well. Fighting Kalphites?” Teiran asked, bemusedly. 

“Yes. The Queen, actually. About that. She’s been giving me a hell of a time, so I figured I’d ask you — what are Kalphites weak to?”

“Crushing. And ignore the legs, they’ll just waste your energy if you go at them. Aim for the head, and have some ranged or magic attacks ready for the winged form.”

“Winged form?”

“You’ll see.”

“Alright then! Thanks for the help.”

“Are you sure you’ll be ok in there? Usually you want to take a team to fight her.”

In the background, she heard the queen roar, and the sound of many, many insects crawling and chittering. 

“I think I’ll be fine, I’m quite sure,” Cyrisus said. “Anyways, I think I’d better go and handle that. See you soon!”

The spell rippled, and then popped. Teiran stared back at her marrentill, which was just as small and scraggly as it had been before. She sighed. 

“I think,” she said. “It’s going to be another long three days.”

* * *

The morning finally arrived, she forced herself not to go to the bridge at the crack of dawn. Instead, she went for a light run from Port Phasmatys to Tyras Camp. She lifted the boulder to the God Wars Dungeon a dozen times, and, when that failed to calm her nerves, she went to Baxtorian Falls, stuck her head under the cascade and screamed.

_ I shouldn’t be this high-strung, _ she thought, as she stood on the waterfall’s ledge and tried to knock a bit of water out of her ear.  _ It’s just a meet up between friends. If I can even call him that. We’ll probably have tea and biscuits and talk about killing things. Totally innocuous. _

When approximately the hour (give or take 30 or so minutes) struck, she teleported to Lumbridge. 

As the spell ended, she could see him standing on the bridge already. From the way he was leaning, he’d been there awhile. 

For once, he wasn’t in armour. Instead, he was wearing black pants and a tunic, his hair tied up, as usual. She could actually see his bare arms now, which sported a few more scars than last time, along with a few bandages. 

And more muscles, a thought that made Teiran feel uncomfortably hot, even without her dragon chain.

_ Get a grip of yourself, _ she mentally hissed.  _ Ok, here we go. Be casual.  _

“Hey,” she waved, stepping onto the bridge. Cyrisus jumped, his face bright red.

“Oh. Hello, Teiran. How very nice to see you. On this day. In Moevyng.”

Teiran resisted the urge to groan.  _ If Mr. Mordaut were grading you for casualness, you would get an F. _

Instead, she sidled up and leaned on the bridge next to him. “So,” she said. “How have you been?”

“I’m well,” he said. “I managed to kill the Kalphite Queen and about a dozen workers before the rest of the hive swarmed, so I had to teleport out, and I ended up landing on a gnomish war-tortoise on the Khazard Battlefield and gods-know  _ that _ was a mess, and then there was this priest in Morytania who needed help escorting a lot of refugees, so I did, and I had to fight this tentacle monster that smelled absolutely  _ dreadful _ , but I ended up dispatching it in the end.”

“That’s quite a week!”

“Ah, that was just Gullday. What have you been up to?”

“Oh. You know,” she said. “Fighting monsters. Going on fetch quests. The usual.”

“Are you up for more fighting today?”

Teiran grinned. “Always. Where’s the target?”

“Falador,” Cyrisus said. Teiran gave him a confused look.

“Falador?” she asked. “I think the worst beast there is Party Pete after too many Wizard’s Mind Bombs.”

“No, it’s under the ground. The Falador Park grounds, in any case. I heard about it from a gardener.”

“What in RuneScape could it be?”

“Erm, maybe I should have him tell you.”

* * *

“A giant mole?”

The old gardener nodded vigorously. “It’s my fault, really,” he said. “I wanted larger begonias for Sir Armik Varze’s birthday, and I ended up buying a stodgy potion from that wizard north of Port Sarim.”

“Stodgy how?” Teiran asked.

“Weeeellll, it made the begonias grow, certainly,” the gardened said, gesturing to the oversized ornamentals towering over the park benches. “But then it got into contact with a pregnant mole, and… Things went downhill. As it were.”

“How big is it?”

The gardener tapped his temple. “Oooh, about the size of Falador Castle. I reckon.”

_ Under this park? I don’t think so, _ Teiran thought hotly. “So you want us to go under the park and slay this mole?”

The gardener nodded. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

She glanced at Cyrisus, who had been watching the conversation with quiet interest. 

“Sure. I’m game.”

Cyrisus clapped his hands. “Excellent! I’ll get the sharks.”

As he headed off to the bank, the old gardener nodded cheerfully. 

“He’s a nice young fellow, that man,” he said. “Helped me dig my petunias.”

“That’s kind of him,” Teiran said, carefully. The old man bobbed his head. 

“He was trying to call someone last week, I recall. T’was sitting on the park bench mixing up some spell.”

“Oh?”

“Whoever he rang must have been very rude. They didn’t pick up. He seemed quite disappointed about that.”

“Yes,” Teiran said. “She must have been quite rude.”

“Oh! I’m forgetting myself. Here,” the gardener said, shoving her a spade. “You’ll be wanting this.”

“Are moles weak to spade attacks?” she asked, taking the tool. 

“Don’t be foolish,” the gardener said. “Yonder mole lives under the ground. How do you think you’re supposed to get there?”

* * *

The tunnels were dark, with little streaks of light streaming through where the encroaching tree roots allowed it. Teiran was pretty sure that there weren’t any biting, light-hating insects down here like in the Lumbridge Caves, but it didn’t reassure her. 

“Ugh,” she said, dodging a falling clod of dirt dislodged by the footsteps above. “This is worse than the Abandoned Mine.”

“Here,” Cyrisus said. He clicked his fingers, and a weak light sputtered to life in his palm. 

Teiran looked at it with mild interest. “Where did you learn that?”

He grinned, the little light making it more ghoulish than usual. “It’s a trick I picked up from the Dorgesh-Kaan. Their magic lamps are much stronger, but they’re reinforced with goblin wire, so this is the best I can manage.”

“It’s still better than darkness,” she said. “I’m glad we have it.”

They walked for a while, listening to the footsteps of the parkgoers above, and the occasional muffled, dying scream of some hapless Falador guard. 

“It’s actually rather peaceful down here,” Teiran said, as a way to fill the silence. 

“I’m not sure. Caves give me the willies,” Cyrisus said. “Besides, I’ve never had much good happen to me in caves.” He paused. “Excepting you, of course.”

She was glad the tunnels were dark enough to conceal her face, which had begun to grow hot. 

“I’d reassess that statement, if I were you,” she said. “You haven’t heard me sing, for example.”

“Why? Are you bad at it?”

“Dreadful. My school teacher had to make me sit out whenever the class sang ‘Mary Had a Little Chinchompa’ on account of all the broken windows.”

“Ha,” He paused, considering something for a moment. “What do you think would happen if you tried to sing crystal, like the elves?”

She stopped in her tracks, genuinely thinking about it.

“I’m not entirely sure,” she admitted. “Bring back Zaros, maybe.”

They shared a hearty laugh over that, and Teiran made a mental note to never hum when she visited Tirannwn. 

They continued walking. Cyrisus renewed the light spell, as Teiran rattled her shield impatiently.

“That damn rodent had better show up soon,” she seethed.

“Moles aren’t rodents, actually,” Cyrisus said. “They’re part of the vole family. So they’re more related to kebbits than rodents.”

“Well, that…  _ kebbit _ better show up soon, or I’m going to have to kill something soon enough.”

Something skittered in the dark. Teiran flicked her whip, sending red sparks flying as it hit the creature, which squealed. 

“Hmm,” she said, squinting at the struggling body on the ground. “Just a rat.”

“How’d you do that?” Cyrisus asked. 

“Do what?”

“That thing. With the whip. It’s like you stunned it instead of just hitting it.”

“Oh, that. Here, take out yours,” she said. She stood next to him, and guided his arm with her hand, trying to ignore the texture of the muscles beneath his robe top.  _ Mind out of the gutter, Teiran… _

“Ok, you flick it, like  _ this… _ ”

The whip lashed out, hitting the rat, which had only just begun to recover, and sending out another shower of scarlet sparks,

“Nice!” she said. “That’s all there is to it, really. Try not to use it too many times in a row — there is a bit of a recharge time.”

“Thank you,” Cyrisus said, flicking the whip experimentally. “I had no idea you could do that. Where did you learn it?”

“Practice. Lots of it,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm despite the giddiness that was threatening to creep in. “But that’s the same for pretty much everything.”

About a quarter-mile in they came to a bit of a clearing in the tunnels. It was a wide-open space, carved out of the dirt like a huge, dusty ballroom. 

And in the middle… A mole.

A smallish one. When, say, juxtaposed to the mole of the mind’s eye, which in the adventuring duo’s case, was about the size of Falador Castle.

Teiran picked it up by the scruff of its neck. The mole flailed about blindly, and unsuccessfully tried to bite her, instead denting its teeth on a pair of dragon gauntlets. Cyrisus appraised it.

“I did have the feeling Wyson was exaggerating a little,” he concluded. “Though I suppose it is a little bigger than most.”

“True. It’s not every day that you see a mole the size of a terrier.” She watched it struggle. “It’s actually kind of cute. If we tamed it, maybe it could be a pe —” 

“Teiran,” Cyrisus hissed. 

“What?”

“I don’t think that’s the mole.”

“What in Gielinor are you talking about?”

Cyrisus didn’t answer, and instead gestured to behind her.

The gardener  _ had _ exaggerated. The mole that towered in front of them was nowhere near the size of Falador Castle. No, it was more the size of Lumbridge Castle, Teiran reckoned. She released the much smaller mole in her grip, which landed on the floor with a squeak and scurried away. 

The giant mole growled. Its star-shaped nose twitched, no doubt sniffing out the two intruders that stood before it. Its claws were razor-sharp, refined from years of carving out its massive tunnel system. If it had eyes, they would probably be red, and beady, and mad.

It looked angry. 

Cyrisus turned to her. “This is the part where normal people run screaming for their lives, right?”

She nodded, slowly. “Yes, that’s generally the recommended course of action.”

“We’re not normal people, are we?”

She grinned, cracking her abyssal whip, as she pulled her cavalier down. 

“No. We’re not.”

“Right.” Cyrisus hefted his whip in one hand and began summoning a blood spell in the other. “Ready?”

“As ever.”

And with that, the two charged towards the beast with a wild scream.

* * *

All was quiet in Falador Park. Wyson the gardener tended to his lavender. An elderly lady sat on a bench, knitting, and stealing sneaking glances at the old man in white knight’s armour next to her. Children played, racing between the paths of flowers and shrieking with delight.

One little girl was sitting on the grass, playing with a horsey doll, when something made her stop. Curious, she pressed an ear to the lawn, in order to better hear the funny noises that emanated from beneath.

“Mummy!” she shouted. “The ground is talking!”

“Mmmhmm,” her mother, who was reading a book on a park bench, replied.

“Mummy! It’s shouting quite a lot!”

“That’s nice, dear.”

“There’s… there’s two voices! One of them is yelling!”

“How fun.”

“The other one is saying….” she clapped her hand over her other ear, so to focus better — “ArrrrghgetoffmeyoudirtybastardIsweartoGuthixI’llmakearugoutofyourhide!”

This made her mother look up. The park was peaceful as ever — Wyson had moved onto his marigolds. A pair of boys chased each other around a crumbling statue. The fountains burbled cheerfully. 

Still, something felt off. 

“I think that’s enough playtime for today, Winoa,” she said, rising from the park bench and taking the girl’s hand.

“Awww, mummmmmy!” the child whined. “They were just about to kill the mole!”

Her mother smiled, wearily. “Really, Winnie, I don’t know where you get such an active imagina—”

A hand, blood-red and caked with dirt, broke through the soil by Winoa’s feet. The woman screamed, wrenching the girl out of the way just as another hand joined it, the pair clawing their way out. From under the turf emerged a very dirty, very sweaty… human. She couldn’t really tell what gender they were under all the armour. And the dirt.

It was wearing a hat. It had a nice feather in it.

The mud-encrusted figure spat out a clump of grass. “Sorry, m’am,” it said in a female voice, tipping her hat to the trembling woman. “Just doing a bit of light pest control.”

She shouted down the hole. “Here, Cyrisus! This spot’s clear!”

A second, muddier figure emerged, wearing a terrifyingly horned helmet and carrying a bundle of… what looked to be claws and fur, the animal from which the woman didn’t recognize. The first figure helped the second up, and it crawled onto the turf with a muddy squelch. 

“This park has too many statues,” he said. “A complete exit hazard. There ought to be some marker flags, at least.”

He tossed a very dented shovel onto the grass, and wiped the mud from his eyes. “Do you think Wyson will be cross about the hole in the lawn?”

The first figure waved it away. “Ah, we took care of the mole. I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.”

She helped the second figure stand up, who nodded respectfully to the petrified woman and her daughter. 

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” he said. The woman nodded dumbly. He turned to the first figure, who seemed to be trying to clear a mud-clot from her ears.

“I need a bath,” she said. “Shall we reconvene at Seer’s Village?”

“Gladly,” the second said. “I think I’ll nip over to Baxtorian Falls. That should take care of most of the muck.”

He snapped his fingers and disappeared with a flash. The first figure shook her head. 

“Showoff,” she muttered, before squelching down the path out of the park.

The woman stood, agape. Wyson, who had just turned away from his flowers to see the hole in the grass, was beginning to launch into a conniption.

The girl looked up to her mother. 

“Mummy?”

“Yes?” the woman squeaked. 

“When I grow up, I want to be an adventurer.”


	8. Overture

Teiran never understood the concept of mud baths.  _ Why go to all the trouble of a bath just to get all mucky? _ She’d thought. Now, however, she truly realized their appeal — it wasn’t about the bath itself. It was about getting to wash it all off afterwards. She silently thanked herself for installing a proper shower in her house, even if it  _ had _ cost her a fortune in marble. 

It took about half an hour to get the majority of the dirt out. She reckoned, however, she’d be finding mud in places mud had no right to be for the next two weeks. Marianne had been sensible enough to leave a change of clothes by the door and ask no questions; the maid had, by now, grown used to washing questionable stains out of her employer’s clothes. 

Teiran was sitting at a table outside of Forester’s Arms now, probably smelling far too strongly of soap, but anything was better than mud at this point. The flax fields waved gently in the breeze, and the bees buzzed softly among their hives. 

She inhaled, letting the last of the adrenaline drain from her body. It always took forever to not feel jittery after big fights like that, a behaviour Marianne knew well enough that she didn’t knock too loudly or drop anything near her when she came home with that look in her eyes. 

It had been a rough fight, for sure. The mole had nearly cornered her at one point, and she would’ve been compost if it wasn’t for a well-timed vengeance spell on Cyrisus’ part. He was just as reckless in battle as he had been on that day with the Inadequacy. Maybe a little more refined in his tactics, yes, but still as much of a meatheaded meleer as she was.

And… it had been fun. Teiran had to admit that. She hadn’t had that much of a rush killing a monster since Glough’s jungle demon back on Ape Atoll.

She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was the equipment. 

Maybe it was having someone at her side…

The air next to the table shimmered, interrupting her thoughts, as Cyrisus popped into existence. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, taking a seat. “I had to run to Varrock for a new shirt. The mole did a number on my old one, I’m afraid.”

“You’re rather hard on clothes, you know. Your tailor must love you,” Teiran said. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a pot of tea.”

“Thanks. And, ah, let’s just say that Thessalia’s got me on a permanent loyalty discount,” he said. “Apparently she saves a lot on bulk cloth because of me.”

The barmaid came around with their tea. It wasn’t normally on the menu for the pub, but Teiran convinced* the innkeeper that giving alcohol to two adventurers fresh out of battle frenzy wasn’t the best idea.**

For having bathed in a waterfall, Cyrisus looked surprisingly tidy. His hair was still a little damp, but it was combed. His shirt, was, well, brand-new, this time a dark green. He’d even shaved, she noticed. 

“So,” she said. “That was quite the thing.” She took a sip of tea, biting back a yelp as it burned her lips.

“Yes,” he said. “It was. Did you, er, like it?”

“I did,” she said. “I haven’t had a good battle like that in ages.”

Cyrisus grinned. “Really? I’m glad, then.”

“You’ve gotten quite good at combat, you know,” she said.

“You’re pretty good at it yourself. I thought we were done for when it started digging up from underneath us,” he said. “I’ve never seen someone switch prayers, drink a defense potion, eat a shark and dodge all in one go.”

Teiran grinned. “It’s not as impressive running up the wall, leaping off of it and using an abyssal whip as a bridle to ride a giant rod— kebbit. You probably shouldn’t use your whip do that again, though. It’s probably not good for a weapon.”

Cyrisus inspected the whip. It certainly had a bit less twitch than usual, and the cord was beginning to snarl. 

“Point taken,” he said. “In any case — had combat really been all that boring for you?”

“It has,” she said, sipping her tea. 

“Why?”

“It just gets… tedious, after awhile. You get used to it. It gets to a point where every fight is done in three hits or you’re battling for your life. Eventually you start doing things like killing greater demons with a dramen staff or fighting the King Black Dragon with nothing but a bronze dagger. And even that becomes stale, after a point.”

Cyrisus turned his teacup in his hands, and, for some reason, looked exceedingly uncomfortable. 

“I can’t say I can relate,” he said. Teiran waved it away. 

“Oh, it’s fresh and new to you now,” she said. “Don’t let that discourage you, though. Fighting really  _ is _ fun. I’m just a bit jaded. And it’s…” She paused, searching for the right word. “...nice. Having someone at your back. It shakes it up a little.”

He nodded. “It is. And I don’t think I could’ve done it without you.”

She hastily took another sip, hoping to hide the blush that was growing on her face. Why did she blush so much around him? It wasn’t as if he’d said something embarrassing.

“Nonsense,” she said, choking down the tea. “You took on the Kalphite Queen solo, after all. The mole would’ve been a piece of cake to you.”

He laughed nervously. “I’m not sure. I probably would have gotten lost in the tunnels, eating rats for a week.”

_ Is his face a little redder than usual? _ She thought.  _ No. It must be the tea. Or the sun.  _

Yes, that would explain it. She was starting to feel uncomfortably hot. It would also explain why she kept avoiding his gaze — the daylight’s glare was just a tad too strong…

Without warning, Cyrisus suddenly gulped down the rest of his tea. 

“I’ve, er, got to get going,” he said, hastily rising from his chair. “I just remember I had a meeting.”

“Oh,” Teiran said, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. “I was just thinking of getting biscuits. Who do you have a meeting with?”

He paused. “The Queen.”

“Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He was avoiding looking at her, for some reason. “Um, anyways… same time next week?”

“Same place? Absolutely.”

He grinned. “Great. I’ll see you soon, Teiran. Try not to get yourself killed.”

She returned the grin. “Try not to die.”

With that, he teleported away. 

Teiran swished the last remnants of her now stone-cold tea around in the cup. “Queen, huh?” she said to herself. “Must be something important.”

She put down the cup. “Hm. I should probably pay.”

As she said so, the air shimmered, and Cyrisus reappeared, shoving an uncut dragonstone into her hands.

“Sorry,” he said. “I haven’t any cash at the moment. Tell the barmaid to keep the change.”

And with that, he disappeared once more.

* * *

*Threatened

**"If you bloody well don't get us a drink that you'd give to your elderly Saradominist grandmother, I will burn this godsdamned bar down."


	9. Stratosphere

The windfall received by the Forester’s Arms was apparently enough for the owner to start offering tea as a permanent menu fixture; by Ivansday that week, the pub had become the talk of Kandarin.

Teiran bemusedly turned down several offers of partnership, citing a lack of business experience, a severe deficiency in customer service tact* and the fact that it technically wasn’t her that severely overpaid. 

Even with that, the whole incident had struck her as rather… odd. Why had he rushed off like that? She didn’t buy the ‘meeting with the Queen’ thing one bit — Cyrisus was an even worse liar than her, if that was even possible — but why had he even needed to make an excuse? Why had he been so eager to leave?

And why had she been so disappointed to see him go?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a wooden cane colliding with her head. 

“Pay attention!” screeched the partyhat-wearing old man sitting next to her. “How in Gielinor d’ya think you’re going to learn proper tablet enchantments if your head’s in the clouds?”

Teiran rubbed her head. “Sorry, Wise Old Man,” she muttered. “I’ve had a lot on my mind recently.”

“Ha! What would a larval adventurer such as yourself be so interested in? Cutting logs?”

“It’s none of your business,” she answered hotly. This earned her another whack on the head.

“It  _ is _ my business if your eyes are glazed over when I’m trying to teach you something useful!” he snapped. “Out with it!”

She wasn’t listening, instead rubbing the sore spot on her head and wishing vehemently for a choc-ice.

The Wise Old Man saw her expression, and a slow, evil grin crept up on his face.

“It’s a boy, innit?”

“What?!” Teiran nearly leapt out of her seat, and collided with the bookshelf instead, adding more injury to her already-bruised head. “No, it’s not a boy.”

The old man remained unfazed. “A girl, then?”

“No! No. It’s not like — I’m not — It’s perfectly fine but it’s not really my —” she stammered, before recollecting herself with a deep breath. “No one,” she said. “It’s no one I’m thinking about.”

The Wise Old Man gave her a hard look. 

“If you say so,” he said slowly. His eyeballs felt like they were boring into her soul.

“Now if you’d be so kind to turn your attention from no one and back to the task at hand?” he said. “When molding a tablet, it’s crucial to get the alignment of the runes right…”

Teiran, however, had already zoned out. As the old man ranted about directional crafting, she was trying to think of a good excuse to cast  _ Contact. _

* * *

She did eventually find it. The very next day, in fact, when she visited Catherby to check the progress of her marrentill. 

“Oh… a… a… a pox on you!” she shouted, upon spotting the scrumpled little wad of dead leaves sitting in the herb patch. 

“I should have paid that damn farmer,” she muttered, kneeling down to inspect the plant. “Let’s see… soil’s still damp, so it’s not for lack of water… leaves are whole, so it’s not biting leafmuncher… roots are fine… no mildew…”

She sat back in defeat. “Are you just unhappy?” she said. The plant didn’t reply. 

She was getting a little desperate at this point — it was the third marrentill she’d killed that week. She contemplated bothering the master farmer down by the docks, but he was probably still cross at her from all the times she’d pickpocketed him. 

Wasn’t Cyrisus good at gardening? Yeah, he said he’d worked at the farm, and he could plant spirit trees. And, well, what did you know? She happened to have the runes right on her, at that very moment… 

Before she could let herself reconsider, she pulled up the spell interface. 

“Alright,” she said, hand hovering over the glowing contact tile. “Here goes nothing.”

The spell rang. And rang. And rang.

_ Please don’t be fighting something, or asleep, or bailing out the Fishing Trawler.... _

“Hello?” Cyrisus’ voice rang in her head, and she nearly sagged with relief. 

“Cyrisus. Hey,” she stammered. “Erm, are you busy?”

“Oh! Teiran. It’s nice to hear from you. No, I’m not busy,” he said. “I’m just talking with some nice chaps about the finer points of violence at Clan Wars.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” she said. 

“How are you? Do you need anything?”

“Yes. Um. I’m fine. You’re good at farming, right?”

“A little. I do it to pass the time.”

“I’ve been having a rubbish time trying to grow marrentill,” she said. “It keeps dying on me, and I don’t know what I’ve been doing wrong. It doesn't seem to be diseased or anything.”

“Hmmm…” he said. “What have you been growing it in?”

“Er, dirt?”

“With compost?”

“Supercompost.”

“What do you use to make it?”

“I take some compost and dump a supercompost potion on it,” she said. “It’s easier than buying coconut shells.”

“That might be your problem. Marrentill likes to grow in rocky, sandy soil — too many nutrients will kill the roots. Try this: Take half a bucket of sand and mix it with half a bucket of compost — normal compost, mind you. Dump it on the patch and use that as your soil base. Then water the whole lot once and leave it be.”

“Thank you, I’ll try that right now,” she said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“It’s no trouble. You pick these things up after awhile.”

Something occurred to her. “Where did you say you were, by the way?”

“Clan Wars. I’m standing by a rather pretty red portal. These nice fellows told me to take all of my most valuable items with me and meet them here.”

“Erm… I think they’re trying to kill you and take your stuff.”

Cyrisus didn’t reply for a moment, and she heard a few frantic shouts, punctuated by the chime of an Ice Barrage.

“Sorry about that,” he said after a minute. “Yes, they just tried to. That’s a shame, they seemed rather friendly.”

“Are they dead?”

“One of them. The other two look rather angry. I should probably handle that.”

“Ok,” she said. “Good luck. Talk to you soon.”

Teiran let the spell fizzle. She stared at the herb patch for a little while, shaking her head and wondering why she was grinning like an idiot, before getting up and heading to the bank for a bucket of sand. 

* * *

He’d been right, of course. As soon as Teiran had set the marrentill seed in the makeshift sandy loam, it thrived, and she’d managed to grow half a dozen by the time the week was up. 

She didn’t have to take a dip in Baxtorian Falls this time to calm her nerves — in fact, after the Mole Escapade, just  _ thinking  _ about it turned her crimson — but she did run the werewolf agility course a few times to shake out the jitters. 

_ This is fine! You’re fine!  _ _ Everything’s fine _ _! _ She thought, as she headed down past the Dig Site.  _ Last week’s da—  _ _ meetup _ _ was perfectly nice! And friendly! And other innocuous adjectives! And it doesn’t need to go any further than that!  _

He was waiting at the bridge when she arrived, just like last time. And, just like last time, his face lit up when he saw her. 

“Hello!” He said. 

“Hello," she returned, cooly as she could. “It’s good to see that you’re not dead.”

“It is rather nice,” he said. “And those blokes who tried to kill me had some pretty good loot.”

Standing awkwardly  _ was _ becoming a regular occurrence, Teiran noted with annoyance. It probably didn’t help that she was the one helping perpetuate it. Instead, she leaned over the bridge and scrutinized the ever-present waterfowl. 

“Soooo…” she said. “What do you want to do today? Kill something else?”

“Tempting,” he said, joining her in duck-watching. “I figured you could choose this time.”

“Hmmm…” Teiran racked her brain. Where on Gielinor could you take someone who’d probably seen all of it?

Unless, of course, it wasn’t technically on Gielinor…

“Ever been to Zanaris?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’ve heard of it. Someone in the Moon Clan may have mentioned it once or twice when I was looking for a dramen staff. But then I heard you had to fight a dryad for it, so I gave it a pass.”

Teiran grinned. “You’re in for an education, then. Follow me.”

She led him back over the bridge and past the churchyard, then through the murky gloom of Lumbridge swamp, before stopping at their destination.

“ _Voila,_ ” she said, gesturing at the building. 

“It’s a shed,” Cyrisus said, looking at the wooden structure up and down. “Are you telling me that all of Zanaris is in a shed in the middle of the Lumbridge Swamp?”

“Sort of?” She took out her Lunar Staff. “Here, it’s easier to show you. Take my hand.”

He hesitated, looking at her hand as though it might bite. 

“It’s quite safe in there,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he said, shaking his head nervously. “It’s just… ah. It’s nothing. Carry on.”

He took her hand. It was warm, and now thoroughly calloused, with little nicks and rough spots where he held his weapons and  _ stop thinking about it, do not think about it even one little bit, you are being ridiculous.  _

She kicked the door open, closed her eyes, and prayed that the transport magic worked for two.

“It’s a very  _ nice _ shed,” Cyrisus said. “That pitchfork’s barely used. Who’d need this place, anyways? It’s not like Lumbridge Swamp is any good for gardeninOH GODS!”

Teiran felt the air shift around them, as glittery magic whatever-it-was surrounded them. When it cleared, the dingy interior of the shed had been replaced with something else entirely: Zanaris.

“I…” Cyrisus stammered. He looked around the clearing, his eyes wide. “Teiran, I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

He reached down and touched the grass, which was a bright, greenish-blue. “Where is it, exactly? How did you find it?”

“I threatened a leprechaun,” she said. “No joke — hey, stop laughing! — and I’m not sure, but I’ve heard it’s technically on the moon.”

“It really is — wait, was that a fairy?”

“That was,” she nodded, as Fairy Nuff flitted by. “Don’t be too impressed. They look all tinkly and such, but they’re just like normal people. There’s one in the marketplace who’s obsessed with cabbages.”

Cyrisus wandered about, occasionally stopping to admire the treehouses or the fairies fluttering by on their business. 

“This is amazing,” he breathed, watching an errant magical thunderstorm form over one of the houses. “Is the only way to get here through the garden shed?”

“No. Here, I’ll show you.”

She grabbed his hand again —  _ oh gods —  _ and led him over to the fairy ring by the wheatfield, which rustled with the constant crop circle to Puro Puro. She fiddled with her Lunar Staff.

“Ok… lessee… A...I...R...there!”

The air shimmered, and they were suddenly standing on a tiny island. There was barely enough room for the two of them to stand on it together, and Teiran found herself huddling uncomfortably close to Cyrisus.  _ Ok, this was a bad idea. _

“So this is what all those funny mushroom rings do,” he said, tapping one of them with his foot. “Must be a nice way to get around.”

“It is,” she admitted. “It saves me a fortune on teleport tabs.”

A gull cried overhead, as the water lapped at the edges of the small isle. It was really more a pile of sand that happened to peek above the water; by all rights, it should have disappeared when the tide rose. However, by some convention of fairy magic, it always managed to stay above water.

Cyrisus took in the scenery, sniffing. “This is… just around Witchhaven, right?” he asked.

“Good spotting. How could you tell?”

“It’s the fish,” he said. “You can tell when you’re around the platform if the breeze is right.” 

He scanned the horizon, shielding his eyes from the sun. “It is rather peaceful. It’d be a good place to think.”

“It used to be,” Teiran said, ruefully. “When I first figured out the rings, this used to be my alone-spot. But then all these people wearing funny clothes would pop up here and start doing raspberries or dancing or digging up holes, so I switched over to Rellekka. Nobody ever goes there.”

“Still,” he said. “It’s rather nice.”

It was nice, she reflected. Even with the smell of fish, the sea-breeze was refreshing. And it was certainly much warmer than Rellekka. 

She looked down. “It’d be nicer if you weren’t trodding on my foot.”

“Ah, sorry!” he cried, lifting his foot away. As he did so, the uneven footing of the island made him wobble. “Oh,  _ cr—” _

Teiran caught him by the shirt just as he was about to fall in the water. 

“Careful,” she said. 

“Thanks. He delicately righted himself. “You can let go of my shirt.”

She did, not even noticing she’d still been holding onto it. Was it cotton? Or maybe wool? She couldn’t tell. She wondered what he would look like with it off…

_ Quit it! For Guthix’s sake, quit it! You do  _ not _ need those kinds of thoughts in your head! _

“Let’s go somewhere roomier?” she suggested. He nodded, fervently. 

“Yes. Er,” he avoided her gaze, before adding,

“Somewhere cold, please?”

* * *

She ended up taking him to the Snowy Hunter Area, where they both sat in a snowdrift and didn’t talk or move until the first stages of frostbite began to set in. 

“That was… refreshing,” she said, as Zanaris rematerialized around them.

“Yes. Quite,” Cyrisus said. He still couldn’t look at her straight. “Very focusing. Really organizes the thoughts.”

He sighed. “Perhaps we should head home,” he said. “To our homes. On Gielinor. In separate directions.”

“Not yet,” Teiran said, trying not to sound too pleading. “Here, I’ve got one more place to show you.”

She fiddled with her staff again. “Hold on.”

He held onto her shoulder this time, a position that was objectively more platonic than hands, and that felt just the opposite. So she turned her attention to the teleport.

“Here we go…”

Zanaris disappeared again, this time replaced by something else entirely.

It was a black plane, stretching out as far as the eye could see, punctuated only by the white, fluffy, cloud-like mass they were standing on, and by the shooting stars that endlessly danced by.

“What… is this place?” Cyrisus said, stepping out of the ring, his eyes wide.

Teiran shrugged. “This one? I honestly have no idea. I think it’s on the same plane as the Cosmic Altar, but I’m no dimensional expert.”

She stepped out of the ring as well, and waved a quick hello to the Cosmic Entity as they drifted by. “I don’t come here often — Fairy Nuff said that the amount of residual magic here is too much for a human to process for longer than half an hour — but it’s nice to visit. Oh, and it’s the only place where starflowers grow.”

“Starflowers?” Cyrisus echoed. “But I don’t see — ”

“Look,” Teiran pointed. Off to their left, a small shoot had begun to breach through the cloud-like ground. Within moments, it doubled in size, sprouting a bud in less than a minute.

“It’s beautiful,” Cyrisus remarked, as the flower opened its petals. “They don’t grow anywhere else?”

“Only here. And they bloom for about a minute before they wither. It’s very symbolic-like.”

“Have you picked one?”

She sighed. “They’re very… fiddly. I’d probably need to get better at farming before I’m able to figure out how to harvest them properly. It’s a shame, I need them for magic essence potions and I’ve been trying to make one for ag — Oh.”

He held it in his hand, stem expertly cut. Strangely, it didn’t start to wilt, and instead stayed frozen in its cycle, at the apex of its bloom.

“Here,” he said. “Now you don’t have to worry about making that potion.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, taking the flower. “I don’t need it that much.”

“It’s no trouble,” he said. “Besides, it’s just a flower.”

“Yes,” she said, measuredly. “It’s just a flower.”

She gripped the plant as gently as she could, and resisted the idea of putting it in her hair. 

They sat on the edge of the platform. She was cross-legged, while he let his legs dangle over the endless black.

“It’s funny,” he said. “Here I am, thinking I’d seen all there is to see on Gielinor, and then you go prove me wrong by taking me to another dimension entirely.”

“Technically it’s not in Gielinor,” Teiran said, helpfully. “So you’re not wrong.”

“You know what I mean.”

“True,” she said. She paused.

“I was only returning the favor, anyways,” she added. “I had no idea there was a giant mole living under Falador, and that’s practically in my backyard.”

As she said this, a particularly bright shooting star sailed by, leaving a trail behind that streaked and shimmered. She wondered if she should wish on it.

“Teiran,” Cyrisus said, slowly. “Do you… want to make this a regular occurrence?”

“What do you mean?”

“This… meeting. Thing. I’ll be honest — today was lovely. And last week, too. I’d like to do it again.”

He paused, and seemed to hold his breath. Teiran considered her wording carefully before she answered.

“I do, too,” she said. “I don’t see why we can’t meet every week.”

“YE — Uh, yes,” he said, lowering his voice. “That would be nice. We could take turns picking things to do. Switch it up.”

“Mmmm.”

“So… next week, then? Same time, same place?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Definitely.”

* * *

She’d ended up dropping him off by Camelot, at his request, and she decided to take the long way to Rimmington via the Mudskipper’s ring. 

As Teiran rematerialized back in Zanaris, a purple-clad chorus was waiting for her.

“Oh,” she said, boredly. “Hello, boys.”

The choir grinned.

_ Tis been so long _

_ Since we sang you our song _

_ But we knew you’d miss _

_ Old Zanaris  _

_ And return for something strong! _

“Very nice,” she said, testily. “That last one was a bit of a stretch.”

_ We like to rhyme, on a dime, for that’s our lonely lot, _ the choir replied.  _ But singers we, our music’s free, and that’s the best we’ve got! _

“Don’t you have a marketplace to flash-mob, or something? I’m rather busy.” She started adjusting the ring code on her staff. The choir, however, had yet to give up. 

_ What’s on your mind, Lady Teiran? _

_ Are you pining for that nice man? _

Teiran froze. “Don’t you dare.”

The choir grinned, this time more deviously. 

_ Did we hit a nerve?  _

_ Do not swerve _

_ For we simply sing _

_ What we observe. _

“You’re clearly all daft, then,” she hissed. “It’s not what you think.”

_ What we saw was a start _

_ Of a blazing fire, _

_ For the Zanaris Choir _

_ Is an expert in matters of the heart! _

“Stop, stop. Your cadence is totally off,” Teiran said, clapping her hands over her ears. “And besides, it’s none of your business!”

_ Business, you say?  _

_ How can it not be our business _

_ When it’s sweetly nauseous _

_ To see Cyrisus look your way? _

“Did that even rhyme? Don’t you have to leave if you can’t rhyme something?”

_ You lack tact.  _

_ We have no such contract. _

“Just… go. Ok?” She pleaded. “It’s been a long day, you’re all getting the wrong idea, and I’d just like to go home and have a liedown.”

The choir shrugged, collectively, and began to sidle away.

_ Listen when the choir sings! _ They called, as their voices grew fainter.  _ You cannot deny your true feelings! _

“Ugh,” she grumbled, as she finished adjusting the ring code and teleported to Mudskipper’s Point. “Bloody Zanaris random events….”

Something they said made her think, though. What did they mean when they said “to see Cyrisus look your way”? She thought he looked at her like he would any other person, but then again, he always seemed to have that odd glint in his eye…

She shook her head. No, that couldn’t be it. It must have been the funny lights in Zanaris, or something. She shouldn’t delude herself. 

Marianne was waiting by the house portal as soon as Teiran entered. 

“Have you had a good day, miss?” the maid asked, taking the adventurer's hat.

“It was fine,” she replied, absentmindedly. “I’ll be taking to my room, so you can have the night off.”

“Thank you kindly, miss,” the maid said. “Will you be wanting the flower for drying rack, miss?”

Teiran realized she was still holding onto the star flower. It had been about an hour since it was picked, but it was just as fresh as it had been on the Cosmic plane.

“No need,” she said. “I’ll hold onto it.”

That night, after using the Contact spell to consult Chaeldar on the care of interdimensional flora, she put it in a vial of water and crushed cosmic rune. Even in the dark, it glowed faintly, like a distant star in a lightless sky. 

“It really is too pretty to use right away,” she remarked, watching it twinkle from its place on the bedside table. “I’ll wait until it wilts before I use it.”

As Teiran drifted off to sleep, she thought of the feeling of his hand in hers.

* * *

*The most common complaint to Aluft Gianne Jr. of her restaurant skills more or less went along the lines of "Quick delivery time, but please ask her not to say 'Here's your bloody toad crunchies' upon arrival."


	10. Inner Secret

Teiran and Cyrisus’ weekly… whatever-they-weres, as certain words one might misconstrue for something else were _certainly_ not applicable for their particular arrangement — settled into a kind of routine. They’d meet by the River Lum, and catch up on what they’d done in between their meetings, or in between the occasional Contact spells they’d just-so-happen to use in the week in light of a wilting ranarr or questions about the right way to fight a cockatrice.

After updates, they’d go and… do stuff. Adventure, really. Sometimes they’d fight things. Other times, they’d simply wander some city or dungeon, poking fun at the skeletons of unprepared spelunkers and browsing the shops.

They showed each other new things. He taught her how to ride an ugthanki without getting her fingers bitten off. She showed him the glittering Asgarnian ice caves where she’d nearly died trying to get Bluerite, when she was still young and stupid and underexperienced. 

He’d saved her, at one point, from a bout of the King Black Dragon’s fire, leaping in front of her as the flames licked his armor and burned the tips of hair. He’d laughed it off later, especially when he discovered he’d lost half an eyebrow from the flames, but she couldn’t help but scold him for his recklessness. 

Still, it was… regular. And pleasant, in the way that risking their hides fighting boss monsters and poking through dark, uncharted caves could be. The weeks no longer oozed by as much, but they still went slower than Teiran would’ve liked. 

Cyrisus tended to teleport them everywhere, too, perhaps a little more than necessary — “Brimhaven is _not_ all that far from Musa Point!” She argued, after a particularly egregious instance — but, she did admit, it gave her an excuse to touch him.

Even if it was on the shoulder. Through three layers of armor and clothes. 

But it was something.

Now, however, she was standing a rather respectable distance from him on top of the Wizard’s Tower, gasping for breath as she admired the view. The idea of racing to the top had been hers, and was retroactively regrettable, as she wasn’t much looking forward to confronting the various angry mages they’d bowled over on the way. 

Still, it was nice to see the sunset. And it had ended up in a tie, anyways.

Far below, she could hear the waves crash against the cliffside, and, somehow, she thought of Lunar Isle. 

Cyrisus breathed in the salty air. “I never really got to appreciate the ocean much, living in upper Ardougne,” he said. “Now I get to visit as often as I like, and it still never gets old.”

“It did, for me,” Teiran said. “Living on an island will do that for you.” She could actually see it if she squinted — the dying sunlight was reflecting off the rooftops. She imagined somewhere on there, right now, was burning a set of shrimps.

“Are you ever going to go back?” he asked. “To visit?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I couldn’t if I wanted to. There’s no way back to the island — not since they stopped teaching sailing — and in any case, I wouldn’t want to go back.”

“Why not?”

“It reminds me,” she said. A gull overhead screeched, and dipped towards the water, skimming over the scarlet, sun-streaked waves. “Of how boring life could be, if you didn’t make something of yourself. If I stayed, I probably would’ve turned out like my schoolmates — teaching newcomers how to kill chickens and forge rubbish bronze daggers and bake bread, and getting married and having kids and teaching them to do the same, all because they couldn’t be bothered to do anything else.”

She flicked an errant pebble from the tower’s precipice, where it clattered down the cliffside and plopped into the water with a distant, tiny splash.

“I don’t want to go back there,” she said again, “because I’m afraid if I do, I might not be able to come back.”

She waited for him to reply, to say something like _That’s not true,_ or _Don’t your parents miss you?_ or, worst of all: _Maybe you’ll be happier there._

Instead, he said: “I understand.”

“You do?” she asked, taken aback. Cyrisus nodded. 

“It’s your life. Why would they know how you want to live it? And why would it make you any happier living it the way they want it?”

“Mmm.” 

She’d had an awful row the day she said she wanted to go to the mainland. Mum had asked her why she couldn’t be more like her brother. Dad told her she’d be back in a week, beaten up by goblins and regretting ever leaving. But all that had done was made her want to leave even more.

“You sound like you know a lot about it,” she said. He didn’t reply at first; he simply stared out to sea, not saying anything, with a look of particular consideration. 

And then: “You know why I didn’t want to go The Flying Horse? That one night?”

She paused, vague recollection condensing in her thoughts. “Didn’t you have a tab?” 

“I lied.” He didn’t look at her, instead focusing his gaze on the now almost-gone sun, and the purple-black of the water. “It’s the pub where my dad used to go.”

He turned to her. “Did I ever tell you why I was afraid of combat?”

“No.”

He turned back to the sea. “When I was a boy, dad used to start every day the same: He’d put on his chainmail and his helm, grabbed his mace and his shield, look to me and say, ‘Son, I’m off to defend Ardougne, and one day you will, too.’

“He meant it. Because as soon as I was old enough to hold a wooden sword, he started to train me. First it was wooden dummies. Then rats. Then,” — Cyrisus shuddered — “Chickens, and then cows, and so on. When I was seven, he sent me to knight school with all the other boys.”

“How was it?”

“Awful,” he shook his head. “I was small for my age, so I was a punching bag for the rest of them. They’d corner me after school and use me for target practice. And if I ran, they’d laugh at me and call me names.”

“Let me guess,” Teiran said. “Cry-risus?”

He nodded. “I suppose that’s about as creative you can get at the age of seven. In any case, it went on for years. I never got any better, no matter how hard I trained. They did. After a while, it boiled down to how fast I could run, and how well I could hide behind the snake pit at the zoo.”

“Ah,” Teiran said. _So that’s why he was able to find me so easily._

“It got to a point where I just couldn’t take it anymore. When I was, I don’t know, 15 or so, I just told dad that I didn’t want to be a guard anymore. I wanted to be an adventurer — finding things, talking to people, getting treasure, all that.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. He just showed me the door.”

Teiran could barely suppress the horrified expression on her face. “He kicked you out? That’s dreadful!”

Cyrisus merely shrugged. “That’s my dad for you. If I wasn't good at fighting, then I could be a sack of potatoes, for all he cared.”

“What did you do then?”

“I worked. Got good at fishing. Got good at farming. Worked as a cook. Worked at a magic shop. Joined a pirate crew. Odd jobs. They all gave me experience, though.”

“When did you start adventuring?”

“About five years after I left. I’d do small quests — nothing that involved killing things, of course — but I got to see the world, and it got me some money. Then I went and I did something very, very, stupid.

“Standing on top of Trollheim in wet bronze armour with a lighting rod in a thunderstorm, screaming ‘All the gods are bastards?’”

“No,” Cyrisus said, smiling. “Stupider.”

“You went home?”

He nodded. 

“What did your dad think of you?”

Cyrisus exhaled. “When I gave him a bag full of gold I’d earned from helping the dwarves, he said nothing. When I baked him a summer pie for tea, he said nothing. When I repaired the fireplace with magic, he said nothing.”

He let out a deep sigh. “Instead, he asked me why I was wasting all my time on useless things, instead of being a bloody guard.”

Teiran resisted the urge to teleport to Ardougne and punch every knight she saw there. Instead, she asked: “What did you do then?”

“I ran away. Same as I always did,” he said. “And I didn’t go back. A couple of years later, I got a note in the mail — he’d been killed in the line of duty, after accosting someone trying to steal from a cake stall.”

“I don’t expect you were sad to see him gone?”

“Not really.”

He looked down at his hands. “Since then, though, I’ve just… felt worthless. Like a useless sack of rubbish. If I couldn’t be good at combat, how could I be good at anything? But every time I saw something more threatening than a spider, I’d turn tail.”

“You’re not worthless,” Teiran said. 

“I know,” he replied. “I’m better now. You’ve seen me in battle.”

“No, you don’t get it,” she said, sharply. “It wouldn’t matter if you were still killing chickens the Lumbridge courtyard with nothing but bronze armor on. It wouldn’t matter if you had a full rune trimmed set and could bake all the summer pies in the world. You’re not worthless.”

Against her better judgment, she reached for his hand on top of the tower wall, softly resting hers on it. He stiffened, but otherwise didn’t move. Even though it has been weeks ago, she could almost feel the rough patches of skin on his knuckles, where they’d slammed on a Karamja bar table.

“I don’t think you’re worthless,” she said. “I think you’re clever and resourceful and kind and thoughtful. But that shouldn’t matter. The only person who can determine your self-worth is you. And do you think you’re worthless?”

Silence.

And then: “No.”

“Even without me saying that I don’t think you’re worthless?”

“I —” He cut himself off. “No.”

“Good.” She turned back to look towards the sea, which now glittered with the first few emerging stars and the slowly rising moon. 

She wondered if the Zanaris Choir could see them from here.

“Cyrisus,” she said, suddenly. 

“Yes?”

“... thank you.”

“For what?” he asked. 

“Telling me that,” she said. “About everything. Your childhood. Your father. It must not be an easy thing for you to discuss.”

He smiled, gently, a little sadly. “I figured you should know by now,” he said. “And… I trust you.”

He took her hand, all of a sudden, sending a shiver down her spine that by all accounts had no right to be there.

“Teiran,” he said. The moonlight illuminated half of his face, and the sea-breeze made his hair ripple gently in the wind. “I —”

He never finished. The door to the tower slammed open, revealing a very angry, very bedraggled looking wizard. 

“There you are!” he roared. “You… you… Vagabonds! Treating the Wizard’s Tower like some sort of jungle gym!”

He started chanting something, and the beginnings of a spell were already forming in his hands.

Teiran felt Cyrisus grip her hand tighter. 

“We should go,” he said. “Where should I take us?”

“Rimmington,” she whispered, and scarcely after the words left her mouth, they’d materialized in front of the Chemist’s house.

She exhaled. “I think that’s enough adventure for one day,” she said, letting go of his hand. “I had a lot of fun. Same time next week?”

“Same place,” he replied. Was it just her, or did he look a little more shaken than usual?

“Good night, then,” she said, heading off to the house portal. She stopped, suddenly.

“Didn’t you have something you wanted to say?” she asked. “Right before the wizard interrupted us?”

“Y— no,” he said. “It was nothing. Nothing at all. Um, Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon time! Here are the jobs, in order, that Cyrisus has previously held:  
> \- A farmhand  
> \- A fishing trawler worker  
> \- A miner (helping the dwarves)  
> \- Working on a charter ship (With Bird’s Eye Jack) as a cook  
> \- A pirate (A very, very bad one on a ship named The Jungle Spider. Turns out his fellow pirates were were all noblemen who were afraid of fighting and bad at sneaking around.)  
> \- An apprentice to a craftsman  
> \- An assistant in a magic shop  
> (After all that, he took up adventuring full-time.)
> 
> Image credit to the fabulous [Enkoro.](https://twitter.com/enkoro_art)


	11. Home Sweet Home

The week crawled by, as it usually did. She’d made an excuse to call him at one point and ask what effects an enchanted emerald necklace would have, but he didn’t pick up. 

_ He’s probably just busy, _ Teiran thought, lamenting over what she told herself was the waste of an astral rune.  _ I’m sure he’ll tell me all about it when we meet at the bridge. _

When she arrived there at the usual time, however, he wasn’t there.

She scanned the immediate vicinity. Goblin, goblin, Lumbridge Sage (who’d been giving her funny looks for the past several weeks), Doomsayer, ducks… No Cyrisus. 

She forced herself to wait ten minutes before casting Contact. It turned out to be pointless, as he didn’t pick up this time around, either.

_ He’s probably caught up in a random event somewhere, _ she thought, desperately.  _ Yes, that’s it. He’s on Evil Bob’s island, and he’s trying to figure out how to un-cook fish so he can get out… _

Half an hour passed like treacle in Wintumber, and she found herself feeling a combination of annoyed, seethingly angry, and mindless with worry. 

_ He’ll be here any moment now. You shouldn’t worry. Why would you worry? It’s just half an hour. And you shouldn’t care this much.  _

45 minutes.  _ Maybe he’s avoiding me? That would explain why he didn’t answer the spells… But why would he be avoiding me? Was it something I said? _

After an hour had passed, the Lumbridge Sage had gone up to check on her, and, after tapping her on the shoulder, been awarded a scream that by Ali Morrisane’s account curdled half the cacti in northern Al-Kharid.

It was at the point that Teiran gave up and teleported to Relleka, if only to clear her head. 

_ Could he be in danger? _ She thought, pacing back and forth over the rocky ledge. A fresh snow was starting in the mountains above, and a few errant flakes drifted down to where she was.  _ Maybe he’s hurt and can’t get up… But where? Not the King Black Dragon, he was just there… He said he wanted to fight the Chaos Elemental next week. Where could he be? Am I too late already? If he’s been down since Gullday, I might be… _

She was just about to teleport to every boss dungeon in RuneScape and give them all a piece of her mind when a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Teiran.”

She managed not to take out her whip this time, instead turning around so quickly that she nearly slipped on the ice.

“Cyrisus!” she said. “Where in Guthix’s name have you been? How did you find me here?”

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, shivering in the cold. His hands were heavily bandaged, though the rest of him looked more or less whole, much to her relief. 

“I got caught up in something," he said, "and I lost track of time. When I didn’t see you at the bridge, I figured I could find you here.”

“You…” She growled. “You... stupid idiot! Call me next time you’re going to be late! I was about to go and threaten every monster in a forty-kilometer radius for information about you!”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I… I worried you, didn’t I?”

She turned towards him, and saw that his eyes were full of concern. 

“A little,” she huffed. “In any case, I’m just glad you’re safe. What happened to your hands, by the way?”

“Woodworking,” he winced, unconsciously rubbing over the bandages. “I’d heal them, but I’m rubbish at hands. I’m always scared I’ll give myself an extra finger.”

“Here,” she said, pulling a green bottle out of her bag. “Hold still.”

Cyrisus hissed as she poured it over his wounds. “Disinfectant?” He asked. 

“No,” she said. “Guthix rest. Here, take your bandages off.”

He did, revealing a set of fully-healed hands, pink and new, underneath. 

“It even got the splinters out,” he marveled, rubbing his healed skin. “Thank you.”

“I hope you’ve learned to use a saw better by now,” she replied. “What do you want to do today? Er, tonight. It seems to be getting a little late.”

“We could always meet tomorrow, if it works better,” he said. Teiran shook her head a little too wildly.

“No, no. It’s not  _ that _ late,” she said. “The night is young. Where were you thinking of going?”

He paused, and seemed to consider his response carefully. “My house?”

“Oh? The one in Ardougne that you grew up in?”

“Gods no. I have a portaled one in the city. I’ve never shown it to you. If, um, it’s fine by you,” he stammered. “I mean, we could always switch to something else if you’d rather no —”

“No, I’d like to see your house,” Teiran cut in. “I haven’t shown you mine, either. Though it’s not that impressive,” she added, thinking about the half-finished games room, three dining rooms and severely-neglected garden. 

“Alright then,” he said. “We’ll meet in Ardougne then? I can lend you a teleport tab if you need one.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “I thought you could teleport us?”

“I’ve, uh, had some trouble lately getting the coordinates right,” he mumbled. “It might be better if we went separately.”

“Suit yourself,” she said. “I’ve got the runes, I’ll just make my own way there.”

“Ok. See you soon.”

He’d already disappeared by the time she’d cast the spell, and she found him waiting by the house portal when she reached the city. 

“It’s not much,” he warned. “I’ve made a few additions over the past week, but nothing crazy.”

Teiran followed him into the portal. “Oh, don’t feel too bad,” she said. “I’m sure it’s quite —” she emerged. “— nice?”

She gaped. It was… enormous. Could houses even have three levels? Could one person even use that many rooms on a regular basis? Gods, she couldn’t see the roof. Even the front garden was ridiculous — marble statues, marble walls, marble fountains… it must have cost a fortune. 

“This is your house?” she said.  _ And not, say, King Lathas’ summer home? _

“Yes?” Cyrisus said, slightly embarrassed.

She turned to him. “How long did it take for you to build this place?”

“A bit,” he said. “I wasn’t much into construction until recently, but I had quite a lot of planks and marble in my bank vault.”

“Why in RuneScape did you if you weren’t planning on using them?”

“Well, the bank told me they couldn’t store all the gold I kept bringing in from all my adventures. They suggested I invest it in either spirit shards or marble. I already had quite a few shards, so I opted for the marble. Between that and all the time I spent practicing magic on  _ Plank Make,  _ I’d… accumulated a lot of construction supplies.”

She stared at him. He seemed a little embarrassed to admit it, when he honestly had no right to be. Then again, only Cyrisus could be embarrassed about building a house bigger than the Carnillean manor. 

“It’s…” she searched for the adequate adjective. “Very nice. Would you mind showing me around?”

“Not at all.” They headed for the front door. As he opened it, they were met by a toothsome, scarlet red demon. 

Wearing a butler’s outfit.

“Would the master and the lady be tempted to a cup of tea?” It growled, its voice hissing and infernal. “Perhaps a plate of curry?”

Cyrisus turned to her. “Do you want anything?”

“I’m set,” she said, never taking her eyes off the demon. 

“We’re good, Asmodeus,” Cyrisus said. “I’ll call you if we need anything.”

The butler bowed. “I shall be off to polish the pewter.”

Teiran watched him saunter away. “I didn’t know you could hire a demon for a servant.”

“The Ardougne Servants Guild has rather good connections underground, apparently,” he said. “He can’t polish anything silver, and sometimes the bedsheets smell like sulphur, but he’s fantastic with the houseplants and makes a wicked good curry.”

He led her past the parlour, and around the rest of the house. Dining room, games room, chapel, formal garden, another dining room… all expertly-constructed, but all unlived-in feeling. And, she realized, brand-new.

“When did you get into construction, exactly?” Ahe asked, as they walked into a study. 

“About a week ago.” He idly adjusted a mahogany telescope, avoiding her gaze.

“You built this all in a week?”

“More or less.”

_ That would explain the splinters, _ she thought.  _ But why all this? _

“Any particular reason?” She asked, her voice casual.

“I need something to do with my hands,” he said, still avoiding her gaze. “And… I was thinking about last week. Talking about leaving my dad’s place… I’ve always just wandered around and slept outdoors and such. This place was pretty much one bedroom until yesterday.”

As he said this, Teiran walked over to the lectern, if only to keep herself from pacing. The one at her house was caked with clay and rune-dust. This one, however, shone with unused newness.

“Why build all this, then?” Ahe said, tracing her fingers over the wood grain. 

“I wanted somewhere I could go to at the end of the day. Somewhere I’d be happy to go to.” He then mumbled something Teiran couldn’t hear. 

“Come again?” she said.

He looked up. “...like you.”

She turned her face away, back towards the lectern, staring at the glossed wood and desperately hoping her face wasn’t as lobster-red as it felt.

_ Cold things, Teiran! Think cold things! God Wars Dungeon! Frost Dragons! White Wolf Mountain!  _

_ Choc-ice, _ her thoughts treacherously added. 

_ Shut up!  _ She internally snapped back.  _ You’re not helping! _

When the crimson failed to drain from her cheeks, she then opted to keep her back to Cyrisus and stare at the door frame. 

“Are those all the rooms?” she asked, measuredly. 

“There are just a couple more,” he said. Did he sound worried? She wished she could see his expression, while simultaneously desperately willing herself not to turn around.

“How about we go there?” 

“Alright.” 

_ Stop making such a big deal out of this, _ she thought, as she followed him out of the room and down the stairs.  _ You’re misinterpreting things.  _

_ Are you really? _ The treacherous voice replied. Horrifyingly, it sounded like the Zanaris Choir. 

_ No, _ she argued.  _ I am not. I’m keeping things… civil.  _

_ Civil how? _ The voice asked. 

_ Civil as in… polite! Cordial! Friendly! And nothing more than that! _

_ Why would anything more than that be bad? _ The voice replied.

Teiran’s urge to punch something was rising, but she suspected that hitting herself in the head would draw Cyrisus’ attention.

_ I don’t know! _ She fumed.  _ It would turn out…. I’d have the wrong idea, and then he’d probably laugh it off or something, but the next thing I know he’s not answering my Contact spells and we stop going on da—  _ _ meetings _ _ and he’ll never speak to me again! _ She paused.  _ Which is fine. Totally fine! But then I wouldn’t have anyone to ask for gardening advice, and you know that herbs are a real bugger to grow. _

She paused again, catching her mental breath.  _ So there! _

She wasn’t sure if she was telling this to the voice, or herself. 

_ Hmmm, _ it replied.  _ Are you sure that this is really about gardening advice, though? _

“Oh, quiet, you,” she growled. Cyrisus stopped and gave her a strange look. 

“Are you ok?” he asked.

Teiran coughed, awkwardly. “I was just remarking. On how… quiet. This hallway is.”

He stared at her for a bit, before turning back around and continuing. Teiran breathed a sigh of relief. 

_ Get a hold of yourself, _ she thought.  _ You’ve slain dagganoths. You’ve banished demons. You’ve been to the Abyss and back. You beat a barbarian in a drinking contest, for Guthix’s sake! There’s absolutely no reason for you to fall to pieces now like some… some giggly schoolgirl! _

The voice didn’t reply, which left her cautiously optimistic. 

They’d reached the next room, which, as it turned out, was the plainest in the whole house that she’d seen so far. It had no furniture, save for a lever, a suspiciously-lightly-coloured patch of marble flooring, and a chair with more spines on it than a slayer helmet. 

“The throne’s rather ostentatious,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be uncomfortable to sit on with all those spikes?”

“I’ve never tried,” he said, crossing the room and standing on the out-of-place-patch of floor. “I’ve only ever used it to dry laundry — the spines make great coat hangers. Here, stand next to me.”

She squinted at the patch, noting the artfully-concealed hinges. 

“Doesn’t that violate adventuring rule number three?” She asked. “Right after ‘Do not take the massive ruby sitting on a pedestal in the middle of the room, left otherwise unprotected’ and ‘Do not pull that one lever in Edgeville, no matter what that one person at the GE keeps telling you?’”

“It does,” he said. “But trust me on this one.”

She smirked. “Oh, fine,” she said, joining him on the patch. “But if I end up getting eaten by a rocnar, I’m blaming it on you.”

“Blame,” he said, reaching for the lever, “I’ll gladly accept, if a rocnar would be able to stomach you.”

She laughed at that, just as he pulled the lever. The marble patch, of course, swung downwards, sending them tumbling down to a patch of straw in a dark basement room. 

“Oof,” Teiran grunted, sitting up. “If you’re going to make this a regular occurance, you might want to pick something softer than a bunch of h—”

She was cut off by a high-pitched growl next to her. She turned to see Cyrisus, face-down on the floor, being attacked by a small blue dragon. 

“Cyrisus!” she yelled, reaching for her weapon. “Hold still! I’m going to try and knock it off —”

“No, no, it’s fine! Don’t hurt him!” Cyrisus said, his voice slightly muffled by the floor. “It’s Roland, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Roland?” 

Cyrisus pushed himself off the floor. Roland, who had been chewing on his arm, slid off with a yelp. 

“He’s still a baby,” Cyrisus said, picking up the dragon, which was about the size of a cat. “About three weeks old now. Mazchna reckons he’ll be full-grown by the time he’s two.”

The dragon began chewing on Cyrisus’ other arm, drooling slightly as it did so. Cyrisus patted it on the head. 

“He’s teething.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lump of charcoal. “Right now all he can really do is gum things.”

He held up the coal to the creature, who relinquished control of his arm and snatched up the rock, crunching it in its tiny jaws. “He’s friendly. You can touch him, if you’d like.”

Teiran reached over and scratched its head. Its horns were just starting to form, still tiny nubs at the sides of its head. His scales had yet to toughen, and they felt like soft, warm leather. 

“He  _ is _ rather cute,” she admitted. “Where did you find him?”

“Mazchna did, actually,” he said. “Apparently the little chap was wandering out in the Wilderness all alone. He reckons the mum was killed by something, which is why he wasn’t in the nest.”

Teiran thought back to the small fortune she’d made by selling dragonhides, and of the various excursions she’d made to the Taverley Dungeons to get to that point.  _ Maybe I should go back to kebbits, _ she thought. 

“Well, he’s in a good place now,” she said. “How long do you plan on keeping him?”

“Until he can fend for himself,” Cyrisus said. “Kuradal said she can take him on when he’s older — she’s got a seperate breeding stock that she keeps away from her students.”

The little dragon yawned. Cyrisus gently placed it on the straw pile, where it yawned once more, curled up, and began to snore.

“We should probably go now,” Cyrisus whispered. “If he wakes up now, he’ll have an awful row and it’ll take him forever to settle down again.” 

Teiran nodded. “How do we get out? Teleport?”

“Here.” He pulled on one of the torch sconces. With a faint  _ click _ , a rope ladder dropped down from above. 

“I forgot to add that in when I first built this room,” he said, ascending the ladder. “I was stuck down here for an hour before Asmodeus heard me shouting.”

Teiran followed him up. “What are you going to do when Roland starts breathing fire?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Probably another dungeon expansion. And a lot of anti-dragon shields.”

When she pulled herself back up into the throne room, the demon butler was waiting for them.

“Forgiving my interruption,” he growled. “Would the master and the lady be interested in drinks? I am aware of a particularly nice Zamorakian vintage, year 165, in the pantry.”

Cyrisus turned to her. “Only if you’re up for it.”

She had a brief moment of internal debate. 

“I’m game,” she said, finally.

_ It’s wine, not rum, _ she told herself, as the butler led them back to the parlour.  _ And I’ll stick to one glass. _

Wine wasn’t really her preferred drink — Teiran was more likely to knock back a strength potion or a cup of tea than anything else — but, as she took a cautious sip, she had to concede that the butler was right. It was rather good. 

They were on the couch now, sitting at a respectable distance from one another. The demon placed the half-full jug on the table, bowed, and departed. 

Other than the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, silence filled the room. 

_ I should say something, _ she thought, taking another sip of wine. 

“Your house,” she started. “It’s nice.”

_ Idiot!  _ She fumed.  _ You’ve said that already! _

Cyrisus didn’t seem to notice. “Thank you,” he said.

The clock ticked away the seconds, somehow managing to match the thumping in her chest. 

“We had rather good weather today, didn’t we?” she said, weakly. 

“Yes. We did.”

She couldn’t even look at him, instead focusing on the blood-red contents of her cup. 

_ Tell him, _ the treacherous voice in her head whispered.  _ Go on. Say it.  _

The clock struck nine, sending a series of chimes that echoed throughout the empty house. 

_ Three words.  _

“I should go,” Teiran said. 

“Ok,” Cyrisus said, quietly. “Uh…”

“Hmm?” she said, halfway through draining her cup. 

“Do you… want to meet again? Tomorrow?”

She spat out her wine, spraying the table with a fine mist of Zamorakian vintage, year 165.

“Aaaagh,” she choked, her eyes watering. Cyrisus leapt up and slapped her on the back.

“Teiran, are you ok? I shouldn’t have startled you like that.”

“Fine,” she gasped, gulping in a lungful of air. “I’m fine.”

“Thank gods,” he said. Even as she stopped coughing, his hand lingered on her back before he snatched it away. 

“We, er, don’t have to meet tomorrow,” he said hastily. “It was just a suggestion. Since I was late today. And since we didn’t do much. Exploring. I mean. Or fighting. But you’re probably busy and I —”

“No,” she said. “I’d like to meet again. Tomorrow.”  _ And the day after that, and the next day after that… _

“Oh,” he said, his voice relieved. “I’d like that, too.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the wine. She wasn’t sure if it was something else. But something in her brain clicked. 

Teiran reached a decision. 

“Cyrisus,” she said, carefully.  “Are you trying… to court me?

It was Cyrisus’ turn to spit out his wine now. The once oak-coloured table had now acquired a mahogany hue.

“What?” He gasped. “No — I mean y — I mean….” He coughed. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean.” Teiran kept her gaze fixed on her feet, but she suspected his face was now thoroughly reddened.

“I —” he started, and then paused. “What makes you think that?”

She dug her nails into her palms. “Cyrisus, I’ve probably been the biggest idiot in all of RuneScape. I should have noticed it earlier.”

She turned to look at him. His face, indeed, was crimson, but it was no match for the terror in his eyes. She hadn’t seen him look this scared since he’d fought the Inadequacy.

She took a deep breath. “How long has it been?”

He looked down, away from her. “Since…” he sighed. “That night. In Karamja.”

She managed a small smile, which he didn’t see. “Was it when I beat you at arm-wrestling?”

“No. It was when you told me about the kebbits.”

“The keb —? Oh,” she said. She touched the brim of her hat. “I mean, I was exaggerating about the kebbits. I supplemented my income a little with a few quests.”

“It’s not that,” he said. “You’re so… stubborn. And willful. And driven. You became an adventurer out of sheer spite! And I…” He trailed off, instead turning to her. His eyes were still fearful, but they also contained something else. Sadness? Regret? She couldn’t tell. 

“Teiran,” he said, softly. “I don’t want to ruin this. What we have. I like spending time with you. I like you.” He paused. “As a friend. And I don’t want to lose that.”

Her heart was jackhammering in her chest now, and even though she was pretty sure she’d had a few sips of wine at most, her head was swimming. Cyrisus turned back to his shoes. 

“Let me take you to the door, at least,” he said, beginning to rise. “I shouldn’t keep you any longer. If you pretend this never happened, I’d be happy.”

“Cyrisus,” she said. She grabbed his shoulder as he was halfway up. “Wait.”

He locked eyes with her. There was that glint again — clouded by sadness, yes, but it was undeniably there. 

“Don’t go,” she whispered.

Slowly, he sat back down on the couch. They were far closer to each other now. Close enough to…

_ No. _

She dug her nails into her palm again, and she was sure she would find welts there in the morning. She didn’t care.

_ I am about to do something incredibly, thoroughly, utterly stupid. _

She leaned forward. She could actually hear his heartbeat, too — it was hammering as loudly as hers. His eyes widened.

“Teiran,” he said, grabbing her arms and holding her back. “You’re drunk.”

He waved a hand past her face, and she felt static spark in the air. The light haze of alcohol vanished, leaving her head clearer than before. 

“Please,” he said. “I don’t want you doing anything regrettable.”

She breathed in sharply. “Trust me,” she said. “I didn’t need the wine to do something regrettable.”

She touched his cheek with her right hand, her fingers brushing over the rough stubble. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead, she leaned forward and silenced him with a kiss.

He froze, and a brief, terrible moment of panic seized her body.  _ What are you doing?  _ Her brain screamed.  _ Turn back! Pull out of this before it’s too late! _

Instead, however, she felt a hand brush the back of her hair. Cyrisus relaxed, and pulled her closer.

She’d kissed frogs. She’d kissed the ground, the first time she’d washed up on shore after working on the Fishing Trawler. But she’d never kissed a person before. 

She’d never imagined it would be like this.

She could still taste the wine on his lips. And his smell… it was a mix of sawdust, and of sooty dragon drool, true, but there was something else there; something earthy and musky that she couldn’t place. She could probably smell it until the end of time. 

His fingers tangled in her hair, and she could feel his breath tickle her cheek where his nose pressed. She truly could feel his heartbeat now — thudding like a drum, his chest against hers as he pulled her to him.

She didn’t know how long they kissed for. It felt like forever, but when they finally broke away, it was over too soon. 

They said nothing. Her heart was still going a million miles a minute, and all she could do was stare into his eyes. Lost. She was sort of half-way leaning on his lap, and he had one hand on her shoulder. The other had snaked around her waist. 

She took a sharp breath. “I —”

He was the one who cut her off this time, pressing his lips to hers in a way that drove her wild. She draped her arms over his shoulders, wrapping them around his head and snaking her fingers through his hair. 

They broke for air a minute later. Her whole body felt hot — radiating, almost — with a glow that could only be described as euphoric. 

He was grinning like a fool — there was that glint in his eyes again; how could she have ignored it? — and, saying nothing, she pressed forward to kiss him again, his arms pulling her closer as she did so. 

As she leaned in, she pressed against something hard under his trousers. 

Teiran may have never kissed a man before, but she wasn’t an idiot. She pulled away, regretfully.

“Cyrisus,” she breathed. His eyes shone, fixed on her face, and his cheeks were flushed through. “Do you want to…?”

She glanced upwards. She hadn’t memorized the house’s layout yet, but she was more-or-less sure which room lay above.

He followed her gaze. “Only if you do,” he said, his voice serious. She felt him grip her waist a little tighter. 

She grinned, deviously. “I do.”

He pulled her closer, shifting his left arm to support her legs. She thought, for a brief moment, that he was going to teleport them both. Instead, he lifted her off the couch, teetering for a second before regaining his balance.

“Ooof,” he grunted. “You’re heavier than I thought.”

She flicked his nose, laughing. “That’s dangerous talk, there, saying that to a lady,” she admonished. “Besides, I’m mostly muscle.”

He chuckled. “True. You could probably lift me, if you wanted to.”

He headed for the stairs, walking slowly, and readjusting his grip now and again. Teiran clung to him, wrapping her arms as tightly as she could around his neck without choking him as he ascended the stairs.

“I’m not going to drop you,” he murmured, feeling her hold tighten. 

“I know,” she said. “It just feels nice. Being close. I never thought it could.” 

He said nothing, and instead kissed her again. This time it was softer. Shorter. But no less sweet than the first time. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, as soon as his lips parted from hers. 

“For what?”

“Being an idiot. For not picking it up sooner,” she said. “I did like you. For a long time, I realize. But I wouldn’t let myself admit it.”

They’d reached the top of the stairs. He adjusted his hold on her, and she felt the muscles shift under his tunic.

“It’s fine. It really is,” he said. “For awhile, I was in denial, too.”

“What changed it?”

“I went back to Zanaris,” he said. “There was this choir —”

“Say no more.”

They’d reached the bedroom door. He gripped the handle, hesitating. 

“Are you really sure?” he asked. 

She didn’t answer. Instead, she pressed her lips to his again, and fumbled with his shirt buttons. 

Downstairs in the dungeon, Asmodeus sensibly began to polish the torch sconces.

* * *

“I’m not sure. It looks more like the Elid than the Lum.”

“Oh, shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret nothing.


	12. Harmony

Teiran woke up. 

The bed she was in… was unfamiliar. It smelled vaguely of sulphur. And woodchips. And something else entirely. 

Her eyes focused on the ceiling. It was a nice ceiling, so she probably wasn’t in an inn. She squinted. It was a  _ very _ nice ceiling. Definitely not her house, then. 

Cyrisus shifted next to her. Still asleep, he wrapped an arm around her waist. 

The events of the previous night crashed in all at once. The meeting. The house. The dragon. 

The kiss. And… other things.

Teiran closed her eyes. It had been… all a blur, quite honestly. She remembered how they’d taken off each other’s clothes. The halting awkwardness. The way he kept pausing, asking her if she was comfortable before he did anything else. 

And how his hands moving across her body had set a fire across her skin. The weight of him against her, heavenly. The whole thing had just been… intense. Yes. That was the word for it. It was a feeling fiercer than any battle, stronger than any sword. 

The way he’d held her… Was cautious. She knew he knew she wasn’t delicate; her numerous scars, burn marks and old battle wounds were a testament to that. Combat did the body hard, after all. 

But he’d still held her like he was afraid she might break. 

Which was kind of sweet, looking back at it.

It had been… An interesting night, to say the least. She’d certainly been educated in certain subjects not taught in any book (at least the kind she would read). He had, too. Adventuring left little time for affection, apparently. 

She glanced over the side of the bed. Much to her relief, her clothes were left where she (or had it been Cyrisus? She couldn’t remember) had flung them, and hadn’t dematerialized in the embarrassing way clothes tend to in a space serviced by housekeeping. Either Asmodeus was taking the morning off, or he had some tact. 

She tried to mentally calculate whether she could reach her shirt without getting out of bed, and then decided it wasn’t worth it. Why bother? Cyrisus’ arm was still draped over her, and while she could easily lift it off, she had no desire to do so whatsoever. 

Cyrisus shifted again, mumbling something as he rolled over. He was really rather peaceful when he slept, she thought, as she turned to face him. 

She stared at his face for a while. His hair was a total mess, and a thin line of drool escaped from his lips. It was hardly the dictionary picture of a dashing hero. Then again, she had met those types. They were generally arseholes.

She shuffled closer to him, pressing her head to his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, warm, reassuring, and slowed in his sleep. She breathed him in, smelling the earthiness, and let out a contented sigh. 

He sleepily wrapped his arm tighter, and pulled her to him. 

She thought back to the night before, when they’d finally gotten around to actually sleeping. 

Laying in the same bed with another person was messier, she reflected, than most people gave it credit for. It had been a complicated tangle of legs and limbs going numb; she recalled wishing fervently that the mattress had a convenient pocket for the inconvenient extra arms that kept getting in the way. 

It also probably didn’t help that every time they managed to get comfortable, they just ended up snogging each other some more. Every time she kissed him, she didn’t want to stop.

It was the most restless night of her life. 

It was also the best sleep she’d ever had. 

She reached up and touched his cheek, the stubble even rougher now than it had been before. 

As she did so, he stirred; his eyes opened, unfocused. He blinked several times in the pale morning light.

“Hey,” he said, softly, a smile creeping up on his face. 

“Hi.” There was that glint again — it almost made her want to blush, but she wasn’t sure if she had any left. 

“Did you sleep well?”

“Mmmhmm.” She wriggled closer to him, soaking in the heat he emanated.

He kissed her, gently, on the forehead; she suspected he was trying to avoid subjecting her to his morning breath, if the taste of stale wine lingering in her own mouth was any indication. 

She sighed contentedly. “I could get used to this,” she said, tucking her head under his chin. He reached over and cupped his hand around it, stroking her hair with the side of his thumb, which sent a soft shiver down her spine. 

“You don’t think we went too quickly last night?” He asked. She shook her head. 

“No. I think we had a lot of pent-up tension, anyways.”

“Ha. It would explain why I felt like I needed to jump in a bucket of ice every time you held my hand.”

She snickered. “Your self-restraint is duly noted.”

_ Now _ came the blush. Did it really matter any more? They’d already reached a certain threshold of vulnerability. Then again, she was sure that, somehow, they still would manage to transcend the boundaries of awkwardness.

_ Had _ it gone too quickly, though? Wasn’t there some sort of sequential process they should have followed, i.e. a few dates, holding hands, flowers, and kissing? Perhaps it had been hasty. It had been in the heat of the moment. 

His hand found hers, somewhere under the sheets. She laced her fingers with his, and let it lie there, simply enjoying his touch. They said nothing.

Last night was good, she thought.  _ This  _ was good. Why would she want it any other way? It was like some huge dam in her chest had swelled and broken, leaving behind a trickling stream that flowed with steady easiness. Being with him, now… it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Is this what she’d been missing out on? Her whole life?

On impulse, Teiran leaned forward and kissed him, stale wine taste be damned. 

He grabbed her by the hips and, not breaking from the kiss, rolled her on top of him. Her surprised shriek was muffled by his lips, which she pulled away from.

“Do that again and I’ll push you off the bed,” she threatened. 

“Only if I let you,” he countered. She raised an eyebrow.

“Is that a challenge?”

“No,” he said, half-laughing. “If it were, I know you’d take it.”

“And I’d win.” Her hands were resting on his shoulders, and her elbows rested on his chest, propping her up, while her legs straddled his waist. 

“Should we get out of bed?” he asked. 

She looked down. 

“No.”

* * *

When they finally did leave the house, it was nearly noon. Cyrisus suggested going out for breakfast, on the basis that while Asmodeus was an excellent butler and cook, curry was not really appropriate for the first meal of the day. 

They’d settled on Taverley, since it was fairly easy to teleport to, and for the benefit of the nearby, snow-covered mountain. 

Even with that in view, however, it didn’t help. The glances he kept giving her, which a day ago would have made her red from embarrassment, were now driving her quite mad.

“Stop that,” she said. 

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“I can look at the wall, if you’d like,” he said. “Or the table. Or that druid doing laundry by the lake.”

“No. No, it’s fine,” she said, fanning her face with her hat, trying to dispel some of the heat accumulating there.

He took her hand, an action which, even with all the activities of the night before, sent a tingle radiating down her arm. 

“Teiran, are you alright?” His eyes were filled with concern. 

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just… not used to this."

He gripped her hand a little tighter. “I’m not, either.”  He paused. “I was worried about last night. I was scared that it was too much.”

“Too much how?”

“That it was too quick. Like when I picked you up. That was probably…” He trailed off.

“Over the top?” she said.

“Something like that.”

“No, no! It was fine. Better than that. I liked it.”

They stared at each other in silence again. The quiet cacophony of Taverley rattled around them. Below, Bernald pruned the grape vines. Off in the direction of Ivy Sophista’s house, someone opened a chest and cursed, loudly. 

“What now?” Teiran asked. “I mean, what are we?”

“I’m not sure.” He ran the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand. “Do we have to put a label on it?”

“No. I just want to know… where this might go. That we know where we’re going. How far where we’ll take this.”

He sighed, and squeezed her hand again, tighter than before. “I like you, Teiran. You make me happy. I don’t want to scare you by doing something… Rash.”

She snorted.  _ Too late for that, mate.  _

“This is fine,” she said aloud. “Where we are. What we’re doing. I want to keep doing this. But…” she paused. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m tying you down.”

“What? Are you talking about?” His eyes widened. “Please. No. I… Where we are is good.” He sighed. “Let’s just… see where this goes. Ok?”

She nodded. “Ok.”

And then she added: “Does this mean we ought to meet more?”

He smiled. “I was hoping we could.”

“We should have days off. From each other, I mean,” she said. “Have our own lives. So we still have something to talk about when we meet again.”

He nodded. “We should.”

Silence abounded. The server, who had desperately been trying to get their attention for the last five minutes, gave up and left in disgust. 

“So,” Teiran said, slowly. “What are we doing today?”

“It’s your turn, I think,” he said. “Though I do have an idea, if you want to hear it.”

She’d given no consideration to it; if she had, then the events of the past 24 hours had rendered it forgotten. “Fire away.”

“I think we should fight the Chaos Elemental.”

* * *

“Whoops! Here comes Mr. Jelly!”

Teiran dove, narrowly avoiding a blast from the massive, clouded, tentacled creature in front of her. It turned as she rolled to a stop, and charged another attack. 

“Kivkziv gl wrv! Ermtviv! Hkllm!” It gurgled, before being hit by an ice spell from its right. “Ld! Gszg sfig!”

Teiran grunted, and hefted her whip, searching for a weak spot. She knew that it was probably a better idea to use ranged, but, despite the number of test dummies she’d practiced on, she was still utterly rubbish with a bow.

“Keep attacking!” She yelled to Cyrisus, who was hurling several ice spells at it from a much safer distance on top of a small hill. “I’m going to try and keep distracting it!”

The Chaos Elemental rumbled. “What would you do for that? The gospel exposits. Thus the raisins lead the Paphian Jig.”

Cyrisus hurled another ice spell, which bounced off of the monster’s side. “Does this thing make any sense at all?” He yelled. 

“Don’t listen to it!” Teiran shouted back. “It’s probably trying to confuse us!”

The Chaos elemental turned away from her towards Cyrisus, powering up another blast.

“Lgmway ic vvvt, ofr ot?” It squelched. “Hvvk hqceuwsr tjdibq oxzz ow ncie vdca, gzdiuu fdh hbvpm. Propfs gzt aoq bjrur.”

Cyrisus tried to dodge. However, he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the multihued bolt of light the elemental launched at him. It blasted him in the chest, causing his whip, his boots, and his robe top to disappear. 

Teiran suppressed a laugh. “It’s not a bad look on you, the bare chest.”

Cyrisus turned red — at least, the bits that were no longer concealed by armor turned red.  “Could we focus on the situation at hand, please?” he said, hastily reequipping his weapon.

“Just admiring the scenery.” She shifted her weight and ran towards the monster, which had its back to her. “Taste energy drain, scum!” 

She launched herself from the ground, whip raised — but before she could land, the elemental turned.

“The verdant god watches,” it growled. “Dig, dig, dig. The return is nigh. A ghost calls. My opposite lays in the eye. The thumb smacks the plank into Camelot.”

A blast of red energy hit Teiran mid-air. The scenery shifted around her in a blur, and she crashed to the ground, thirty feet away. The elemental turned back to Cyrisus. 

“Apm kivvwb pmiz, nwczbp wn bpm mqopb. Bpm lmil jmkswv.”

This time Cyrisus managed to dodge its attack. The magic orb flew past him and hit a rock, which turned into a raw chicken.

Teiran pulled herself up, ignoring the wicked bruise forming where she had landed on her side and sprinting back towards the battle. “Keep moving!” She yelled. “Once it launches a spell, I don’t think it can switch directions!”

Cyrisus attempted to teleport, cursing as the spell fizzled in his hands. “Damn Wilderness!” 

Instead, he rolled away from a second magic blast, tumbling down the hill and landing in a messy heap. 

Teiran caught up to him. “Need a hand?”

He took it, pulling himself up in a crouch next to her. He was coated in ashen dust, which clung to his chest and, she noticed, outlined the shape of his muscles.

“My eyes are up here,” Cyrisus said, not unkindly. Teiran snapped out of it. 

“What do we do now?” The hill was between them and the elemental now, but she doubted they had much time before it found them.

“Head-on attacks don’t seem to be working,” he said, eyeing the edges of the elemental as it pulsed behind the mound. 

“Mud pies! Mud pies!” it crowed. “A crushed cabbage leaves leaves! The best part of waking up is goutweed in your cup!”

_ Goutweed… _

Teiran scanned the landscape. Besides the hill, there weren’t any other hiding spots — it was scorched, flat and bare as upper Wilderness can be. 

“What’s the strongest spell you’ve got?”

Cyrisus rummaged around in his bag. “I’ve enough runes for one last ice barrage,” he said. “After that, I won’t be able to cast anything better than water burst.”

“Will it be strong enough to kill it?” 

“Ice barrage? Just barely, if I concentrate, and I hit it dead-on.”

“That’s enough for me.” Teiran began to wrestle off her chainbody, wrenching it off before starting on her platelegs. 

Cyrisus stared in confusion. “Look, I’m game,” he said. “But I don’t think now is the best time or place for us to —”

Teiran shoved her obsidian shield at him, knocking the breath out of his lungs. “Get your mind out of the gutter!” She hissed. “I’m trying to lighten my load so I can run faster.” She paused. “Don’t take that as a no, though. Let’s kill the elemental first, at least.”

“Run? What are you talking about? And yes, absolutely after we kill the elemental. Which I assume you’re planning to.”

“I am.” She glanced over the hill again. The elemental seemed to be singing a song. It was something about a hedgehog. 

“Here’s the plan. I’ll dash out from the side  _ there,”  _ she said, pointing to the right of the hill. “That should catch its attention long enough for you to climb up without it noticing. When I’m ten or so meters out, hit it with all you’ve got.”

“You can’t go without armor!” Cyrisus protested. “Let me cast Disruption Shield on you, at least.”

She shook her head. “Save your runes. I should be fine, so long as I can dodge its attacks.”

Cyrisus sighed. “I know I can’t convince you otherwise, so take this, at least.”

With that, he removed his dragon helm and put it on her head.

“It’s going to slow me down!” She said. “Besides, you’re going to be closer to it!”

“And you’re going to be the one it’s firing at,” he countered. “Please? I’d rather you wear that than no armor at all. Anyways, I need to see clearly so I can aim the spell.”

“Fine,” she huffed, and with that she stood up, readying herself for the sprint. “Wait until I give you the go-ahead before you go up the hill.”

“Ok.” Cyrisus touched her shoulder. She turned, and he kissed her, cupping the part of her cheek that wasn’t covered by armor.

“Don’t die,” he said, as they parted. She grinned. 

“Same to you.”

With that, she turned back to the hill. “You try not to miss.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.” She took a deep breath, and launched herself into a desperate sprint. 

The elemental spotted her as soon as she rounded the hill. 

“trela redurtnI axelA.” It warbled. “abmoor eromyalc hctapsiD.”

The first spell missed, blasting the patch of ground where she would have been running if she hadn’t twisted out of the way. The second one was closer — she could feel the heat of it as it hit the earth. 

“Cyrisus!” she shouted, zigzagging as the elemental got ready to fire another spell. “Get ready!” 

The elemental crackled with energy. “Ich sehe dich, Weltenwächterin,” it rumbled. “U kan sterf, maar die dood sal u ontwyk. Doch heutzutage? Komm, süßer tod.”

This blast managed to hit her, sending her tumbling over the scorched ground. Mercifully, the helm protected her head as she skidded to a stop. 

Teiran rolled over with a groan. The Chaos Elemental was right above her, its cloudy body a storm. 

“Szhgz oz erhgz, yzyb,” it chittered. It prepared to blast a spell. 

“Oh, no you don’t!”

Teiran heard an explosion from the direction of the hill. The elemental began to turn, only to be hit by a wave of freezing energy. Frost crept up from where the blast hit, slowly coating the elemental.

“Easy come,” the elemental croaked. “Easy go. Will you let me —”

The ice then closed over, silencing the monster as it turned into a frozen block. It hung in the air for a moment before exploding, blasting Teiran with a gust of freezing air, and sending a shower of coins, notes, and gems to the ground. 

As the smoke disappeared, she could see Cyrisus standing on the hill, panting, his arms still raised. 

Teiran stood up, wincing as her ankle throbbed in protest.  _ That’ll slow the trip back, _ she thought, annoyedly. As she wobbled, Cyrisus leapt off the hill and ran up to her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, catching her just as she was about to fall. 

“Fine,” she hissed. “Just a twisted ankle. Nothing a restore mix can’t help.”

“That was stupid,” he said. “We probably should have just given up and gone back.”

“It was. And we could have,” she said, shifting her weight to her good foot with a grunt. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“True,” Cyrisus said. “This week, though, I think we should keep the combat to a minimum.”

She nodded her head in agreement. “Hey, at the very least, we got some loot out of it. Look, it dropped some gold, and a couple of sapphires, and…”

She picked up one of the papers. “Flax notes.” She scanned the pile it had left behind. “Quite a lot of them.”

“Here,” Cyrisus said, helping her sit. “I’ll gather them up, and I’ll help you hobble over to somewhere we can teleport from.”

“Sounds good.” She shifted her foot, wincing as it throbbed, and contemplated asking for a teleport to the Nardah ice stand on the way back. She looked up, as Cyrisus gathered the rest of the notes before they could blow away.

“Are you going to put your robe top back on?” she called out. Cyrisus looked down at himself.

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Svb ollp zm zfgsli xznvl


	13. Shine

He ended up carrying her the rest of the way, occasionally putting her down to fight off a bandit or opportunistic killer.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said, as Cyrisus picked her up again. Behind him, a severely inconvenienced greater demon was regretting his life decisions. 

“I do know,” he said. “It is faster this way, though. And I rather like it.” And then he added: “But I can put you down if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No, no. This is fine.” She nestled herself a little closer to him. He had the dragon helm on again, on account of the fact that it kept poking his chin when Teiran was wearing it. 

“Here,” Cyrisus said. “I think we’re close enough.” He concentrated, mumbling under his breath as the burned, blackened landscape of the Wilderness disappeared, replaced by the verdant fields of Rimmington.

“I figured you’d want to go to your house,” he said. “Though I can take you back to Ardougne, or elsewhere, if you prefer.”

“No, it’s fine.”  _ I suppose he’d have to see my house at some point or the other. _ “Just… don’t laugh, ok? I haven’t had the time to do much work on it, and you know how much teak planks go for now —”

“Teiran,” he cut in. “I don’t care what it looks like. A week ago, my entire house was a room with a bed in it. And the entrance, if that counts.”

“About that,” she asked, as he stepped through the entrance portal. “What did compel you to power-level construction all of a sudden?”

Cyrisus was about to answer when he was interrupted by Marianne, who let out a shriek as she saw a burly, soot-covered man carrying her employer into the house. In retrospect, Teiran reflected, the dragon helm also did not help. 

The maid grabbed a nearby wooden chair and lifted it over her head with surprising strength. “You put this miss down right away, you… you filthy vagabond! If you’ve laid a hand on her, I’ll, I’ll cut your guts for garters, I will!”

“Marianne!” Teiran yelled. “Calm down! I know him! Put the chair down. He’s not another Kinshra trying to hold me hostage, I promise.”

“Oh.” Marianne lowered the improvised weapon. “I’d hope it wouldn’t be, miss. They made a dreadful mess all over the carpet when you were through with them.” She bowed apologetically. “Beggin’ your pardon sir, what with me calling calling you a vagabond and threatenin’ your life and such, Mr….?”

“Cyrisus,” he said. “And please, it’s no trouble. You’ve a rather good chair arm.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cyrisus.” The maid turned to Teiran. “Are you hurt, miss? Shall I fetch the chemist?”

“No, it’s not too bad. Could you do me a favour — run over to the bank, and bring me a bottle of restore mix, please?” She glanced to Cyrisus briefly. “You can have the afternoon off after that.”

The maid bowed again. “Thanking you kindly, miss. Right away, miss.” She then disappeared into the portal, leaving the two of them alone.

Teiran glanced around at the garden, which had a few scraggly plants in it, and one blessedly healthy-looking oak tree. She really  _ did _ mean to get around to maintenance, and getting good enough at construction so she could at least add a formal garden. Maybe rearranging the house to a point where you didn’t have to walk through six rooms just to get to the kitchen. Marianne had always complained about that. 

At the same time, Teiran reflected, there were only so many oak bookcase flatpacks she could make, and so many times she could tear down and rebuild the larder before she got bored. And planks  _ were _ expensive. 

Cyrisus, however, didn’t seem to notice the abysmal state of the garden, or of the house layout. Instead, he shifted his hold on her and headed inside.

“That’s quite the maid you’ve got there,” he commented, as he carried Teiran into the main hall. “Where would you like me to take you, by the way?”

“My room, please. Down the hall, second door on the right. And she’s a gem, Marianne. Best maid I’ve ever had.”

“How many  _ have _ you had?”

She thought for a moment. “She’s number five, I think. The first one ran off screaming when I came home with a hellhound head for the dining room wall. The next two quit on the basis of being tired of picking broken bits of training dummy out of the sideboard. And Rebecca…” 

She winced. “I  _ told _ her not to touch the unholy sigil of Agrith Naar, but she wouldn’t listen, and one day she was polishing the silver and the next thing I know, there’s a greater demon in my parlour.” She shook her head. “Total nightmare to figure out. I was finding grains of sand between the floorboards for months, and Becky just up and left the next day.”

“So how did you find Marianne?”

“Streets of Varrock. She was trying to pick my pocket.”

“You hired a pickpocket?”

She shrugged. “I figured that if she could handle money light enough for me to almost not notice, she’d be meticulous enough to handle the china.”

Cyrisus turned down the hallway. “I suppose that’s a sound a logic as any.”

“She beat a Kinshra half to death with a fireplace poker once. And she makes a damn good stew.”

They’d reached the bedroom door. Teiran braced herself.

“I’m warning you now,” she said. “I’m a little…. Untidy. Try not to trip on anything.”

“Nonsense,” Cyrisus said, as he turned the handle. “Everyone’s a little messy when they’re busy. I’m sure it’s — Oh.”

“Told you.”

To say her bedroom was a pigsty would be an insult to pigs. True, while she didn’t keep any uneaten food or anything in there (Evil Dave’s basement was a testament to the consequences of unsanitary living) it was currently a nightmarish jumble of old quest items, half-repaired armor, bank notes, books, nearly-empty potion flasks and various weapons.

“I’ve, er, been planning to straighten up a little,” she said. “At some point.”

Cyrisus delicately stepped over a pile of dramen staves. “I mean,” he said, “It’s not entirely terrible. My bank’s also in a bit of a muddle. Is that a troll skull?”

Teiran squinted at the offending bone, which was sitting on top of a pile of alchemical notes. “I think so,” she said. “Don’t tell My Arm. And you don’t even want to see my bank. Apparently the tellers have had to put warning tape on my vault.”

To his credit, Cyrisus managed to navigate his way through the piles of junk without stumbling, and set her down on her (mercifully clear) bed.

“How’s your ankle?” he asked, sitting next to her. 

“Painful. But no worse than before.” She sat up a little more, taking care not to put any weight on it. As she did so, she noticed the star flower sitting in its vial. 

_ Damn _ , she thought.  _ I hope he doesn’t notice it. _

Too late — he’d followed her gaze, and was looking at it with quiet interest. 

“I didn’t need to use it straight away, if you’re wondering,” she said quickly. “And I still need gorak claws, which are just a bugger to get to, and I’ve just been really busy lately so….” she trailed off. 

Cyrisus didn’t react beyond smiling slightly. “It’s pretty,” he said, touching the still-pristine petals. “I can always pick you another one if you need it.”

She didn’t know how to respond, simply watching him look at the flower. Even though she had an inkling of why he could render her speechless, it wasn’t any less frustrating.

“That would be nice,” she said, simply. 

There was a knock on the door frame. Marianne had materialized, holding a potion in one hand and a jug in the other.

“Beginning your pardon, miss. I’ve fetched your restoratives,” she said, bobbing nervously. 

“What would I do without you?” Teiran said. “Bring them here.”

Marianne was obviously more used to the chaotic state of Teiran’s room, as she expertly navigated the piles of junk without so much as a stumble. 

Teiran took the bottle gratefully. She pulled out the cork with her teeth, held her nose and downed it in one go. 

“Blugh,” she croaked. Marianne handed her the water jug, which she took a hearty swig from.  “Yeeech,” she gasped as she finished the water. “Only barbarians would think to mix fish eggs in a healing potion.”

Even as she washed down the last of the fishy taste in her mouth, she did have to admit it worked quickly. The swelling in her ankle had reduced already; a minute later, and she could move it without pain. 

“If you’re well, miss, I’ll be taking my leave,” the maid said. Teiran nodded.

“Off you go.” She fished around in her bag and pulled out a sack of gold coins. “Here’s your week’s pay. Have a drink. On me.”

The maid took the sack and bobbed a curtsy. “Thanking you kindly, miss.”

As the maid turned to leave, Teiran stopped her. “You’re forgetting something, Marianne.”

“What would that be, miss?” the maid asked, innocently.

Teiran gave her a Look. Marianne sighed, fished around in her pocket, and retrieved an uncut sapphire not unlike the one Cyrisus had retrieved from the Chaos Elemental’s drops. Cyrisus’ jaw dropped. 

“Sorry, miss,” the maid said, handing the gem back to the speechless adventurer. “I like staying in practice, miss.”

“As you should,” Teiran said. “I do ask that you don’t pickpocket from guests unless I tell you to. If you need something to do tonight, I heard there’s a merchant’s guild meeting over in Port Sarim. They probably carry cash.”

Marianne brightened at this. “Thank you, miss. I’ll be off now, miss.” With that, the maid bobbed another curtsey and left, closing the door behind her. 

“How did she do that?” Cyrisus asked, bewildered. 

“A maid like her,” Teiran replied, “is worth her weight in gold. Here, I think my ankle’s all set. Do you want help taking off your armor?”

“Please.”

Teiran sat up and removed his dragon helm. The lower part of his face was still covered with ash from the tumble off the hill.

“All’s said and done, I think we did pretty well,” she said. “It’s going to be a real bugger selling all that flax, though.”

Cyrisus didn’t reply. Instead, he rested a hand on her cheek, pulling her closer as he leaned in and kissed her. 

Teiran relaxed, letting herself melt into his embrace. As she did so, she traced her fingers over the muscles of his still-bare chest. She felt his heartbeat pick up, and he wrapped his spare arm around her waist and held her tightly to him. 

They broke off long enough for him to wrestle off her top. He then kissed her again, pressing his lips to hers before planting a trail from her jawline to her neck. 

She hissed as he did so, lightly digging her nails into his back. “We should have done this sooner,” she happily sighed. 

“I’m not sure,” he said, muffledly, his breath tickling the back of her neck. “It probably wouldn’t have been a good idea with the Chaos Elemental around.”

“You know what I mean.” She pulled her legs around his waist. “Earlier before this, I mean.”

He pulled away from her neck. “I was going to tell you sooner.”

“When?”

“On the tower. Before that damn wizard interrupted us.”

“Oh. So  _ that’s _ what you wanted to tell me.”

“I’d wanted to, for the longest time. I’d been waiting for the right moment.”

“Why didn’t you say it afterwards?”

He looked away. “I got scared.”

“Of what?”

“You rejecting me.”

“Is that why you were avoiding me all week?”

He nodded. “The only place I knew I wouldn’t run into you was my house. And, well, I did have all that construction material.”

“Mmm.” She rested her hands on his shoulders. “It more or less worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

“It did.” He kissed her again; slowly, gently, but strongly. She savoured it, hoping that her breath still did not taste of restore mix, and let her and Cyrisus fall back onto the bed. 

As they embraced, and as she fumbled with his robe skirt, she let the future work itself out.


	14. Hidden Evils

The day ended as it had begun: with them naked. In bed. Teiran wondered if this would be a regular occurrence. If it was, it was fine by her. 

Cyrisus was quiet afterwards, as he had been the previous times. He’d just held her, eyes closed, a look of peaceful bliss on his face. 

And she’d let him. It was strange — any activity that involved sitting still for this long would usually drive her up the wall, unless she was tired or she had a lot to think about. But being in his arms made her mind blank. She didn’t think; she just felt. Experienced. Existed. She could feel his heart in his chest; once rapid, it now beat as slowly and steadily as a war drum. 

It was strange, as well, to think that less than 48 hours ago, just them touching hands turned her red from embarrassment. Oh, how the world moved.

Cyrisus let out a sigh, and pulled her closer, kissing her on the forehead as he did so. Her hands traveled up his chest and around his neck, holding him close. She leaned up and kissed him back, inhaling his scent and letting her head fill with beautiful, hot clouded nothing.

“Stay the night?” she whispered, as they parted. 

“Yes.” He buried his nose in her hair. “Please.”

“Mmmmm.” She should probably shower, she reflected, and wash off all the sweat and dust. She didn’t want to leave the bed — or his arms. It could wait until the morning.

“Tomorrow,” she started. 

“I want to spend it with you,” he said quickly. “But... I should get back to my house. Roland needs minding. And I have a few other things I need to get to.”

“So do I.”  _ Because Miscellania is unable to take care of itself, and Queen Ellamaria said the White Tree wants trimming, and I really should get to tidying…. _

“When do you want to meet again, then?”

Teiran bit back on saying  _ as soon as possible, _ and instead replied, “Four? Tomorrow?”

“By the Lum?”

“Of course.”

Though she couldn’t see it, she could feel him smile into her hair. “It’s set, then.”

“Mmmm,” she mumbled again. She  _ was _ tired. It had been a busy day. A chaotic, beautiful, busy day. She didn’t want it to end. But she also wanted to sleep. 

Cyrisus kissed her once more, and then relaxed. A few minutes later, she felt his breathing even out as he drifted into slumber. And she, exhausted, soon joined him. 

* * *

Saying goodbye the next morning was harder than it should have been, Teiran reflected. She had resolved to make it quick — she didn’t want to end up like those nauseatingly saccharine couples that stood on the docks outside of charter ships, locking lips for what seemed like hours, uncaring of the dirty looks everyone else gave them — but, as they stood outside the house portal in Rimmington, it was difficult not to linger. 

“You’ll be off, then,” she had said, before adding: “Have you got enough coal for Roland? There’s a mine a little north here if you need some.”

“I’ve plenty,” he replied. “Mazchna says I should start supplementing his diet with sulfur and coal tar, though. Apparently it helps with digestion.”

“Yes. That would be good.”

They stood, neither of them making a move. 

“I should probably stop by the Grand Exchange,” she said. “Sell all those flax notes.”

Silence abounded, filled only by the distant roar of the sea.

_ You’re seeing him in less than six hours. Why is this so difficult? _

“Goodbye, then,” she said. 

He nodded. “Goodbye.”

Then he kissed her, holding it maybe a little longer than he should have, but at this point she didn’t care.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, as he let go. 

“I know.”

He smiled, and before she said anything further he vanished, leaving behind nothing but the smell of the sea and a buzz in her chest.

Marianne was waiting for her as she re-entered the house; Teiran noticed she was sporting a gold bracelet that hadn’t been there the night before. The merchants of Port Sarim, she deduced, were now likely a few valuables lighter. 

“Cup of tea, miss?” she asked. Teiran half-heard it; her eyes were unfocused, and her mind was elsewhere.

“Yes please,” she managed to say, before adding: 

“I’ll take it in my room.”

* * *

Teiran didn’t manage to clean her room entirely — that would probably take a week and a few rubbish carts — but she did manage to clear a path from the door to her bed.

“Why do I even  _ have _ nine dramen staves?” she said, throwing another one onto the rapidly-growing pile by the door.

“You keep bringing the branches to Entrana and making them there, miss,” Marianne said, as she sorted through a pile of miscellaneous farming seeds. “I recall you saying that ‘those Saradominist wazzocks are too daft to confiscate my carving knife and I need to beat up a greater demon,” miss.”

“Hmmm. That would explain it.” She picked up a random sheet of paper and skimmed it. “Have you ever wanted to make an ugthanki kebab?”

“Not particularly, miss.”

“Into the bin this goes, then.”

She sorted through the rest of the pile. Rock crab shell, bar magnet, zogre bone… why did she even keep all this stuff around? It was too esoteric for the Grand Exchange clerks to accept, and at this point all of it served no purpose than to clog up her room.  _ Then again, some of it might come in handy one day, _ she thought, as she put aside an old, rattling music box.

“Miss,” Marianne interrupted. “Would you want to keep this?” She held up a triangular pendant with a little green stone set in the middle. “I found it in a pile of limpwurts.”

Teiran took the necklace and scrutinized it. “I remember this. That odd fellow back in Edgeville gave me this for a job a while back. What was his name…?”

She racked her brain.  _ Luke, Lucy, Lathas… _ “Oh. Lucien. Weird guy. Very dodgy. Wanted me to get a staff of power or whatever from some basement in Kandarin.”

“Did you, miss?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Apparently he was of those take-over-the-world sorts. Probably one of Evil Dave’s friends. Can’t be letting someone like that handle an all-powerful wossname.”

As she held the pendant, however, something sent a chill down her spine. Something about Lucien had felt… off. Taking him down when she confronted him about the staff had been too easy. And he said he’d been heading off to the north…

She stuffed the necklace into her pocket, figuring she could hock it off to some mugger in Varrock, and got up, scratching her palm absentmindedly. 

“I’m going out, Marianne,” she said, grabbing her hat from the bed. “Be a dear and put the refuse pile in the usual place, will you? I’ll deal with it later.”

“It  _ is _ starting to get a little crowded in there, miss. Another cleaning like this and there won’t be any room left.”

Teiran waved it away. “It’ll be fine. It’s not like anyone goes into Melzar’s Maze nowadays.”

“Certainly, miss.”

Teiran grabbed the flax notes on the way out —  _ I need to go to Varrock anyways _ — and teleported to Miscellania. Her arrival startled one of the stall keepers, who immediately dove out of the way before nervously greeting her. Teiran, distracted, merely waved and made her way into the castle.

When she reached the throne room, Advisor Ghrim somehow managed to give her a more dubious look than usual. 

“Greetings, your majesty,” he droned. “Your presence is appreciated after such a long period of… leave.”

“It’s been two weeks. And I’ve been busy,” she retorted. “How are things going?”

“Let’s see,” the advisor said, consulting his notes. “The guards had to break up 16 fights between the kingdoms, seven of which erupted over the right way to harvest potatoes, three over the right way to spin flax, five over whether the slightly-taller-than-the-rest maple rested within the border of our kingdom or Etceteria’s, and one when Matilda, a citizen of Etceteria, accused Thorhild, a citizen of our own, of sabotaging her mountain flowers.” Ghrim flipped his chart and squinted. “In addition, Frodi the fisherman said he caught ‘Quite a big swordfish indeed, practically the size of King Vargas,’ by his own account, your highness.’”

Teiran nodded. “So the usual, then?” 

“Indeed. I have instructed this week’s resources be deposited to your bank as normal, your highness.”

“Very good.” She handed the advisor a sack of gold. “For the coffers. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No, your highness,” the advisor said. “Other than my utmost gratitude that you are well, despite your prolonged absence.”

“Carry on, then. I’ll be cutting wood with the citizens.”

Teiran fumed as she made her way down the castle and to the woods.  _ Bloody stuffy advisor, going around with a stick up his arse… I’m gone for a fortnight and he acts like I’ve abandoned the whole kingdom! _

As she marched outside, she couldn’t help but glance up at the sun, the light of which was consistent with that of a watery-egg, hidden behind the ever-present Rellekka cloud-cover. If she had to guess, it was around noon. Maybe one, if she was being generous.

_ Three hours _ , she thought, as she started on chopping down a maple tree. Lumberjack Leif shouted his thanks, but she didn’t notice. 

_ What should we do tonight? _ She mused.  _ Probably nothing combat-related, yesterday was enough excitement… maybe Morytania? No, it’s a bloody swamp, Teiran, it can’t be a pleasant evening mucking around in a swamp... then again, anything with him would be pleasant… Dragontooth Island, maybe? Yes, that’s a good spot, it’s peaceful, and it’s the only place there not covered in godsdamn slime…. _

“Your majesty?” Leif said. Teiran looked up, annoyed. 

“Yes, what is it?”

“Er,” the lumberjack said. “We appreciate your work, your highness. We really do. But I’m fairly sure we’re not in need of wood chips.”

Teiran looked down. The tree she’d been working on was not only on the ground, but halfway to a dugout canoe.

“Sorry, Leif. I got… distracted.” she said. “Here, I’ll start on a fresh one.”

“No need, your majesty!” Leif said, raising his hands. “I think we’re all set. You can put the axe down now. Please.”

Teiran returned the hatchet to her belt. “Fine then. I’ll be back next week.”

“Looking forward to it, your majesty.”

Teiran teleported to Varrock, appearing just outside the southern gates.  _ Why is your mind wandering so much? _ She thought.  _ You’re seeing him in three hours.  _ She stopped.  _ Maybe that’s why you’re thinking about him. Then again, have you thought about anything other than him for five minutes straight in the past month? Gods, I’m going to start turning into Juliet…. _

She made her way down the street, stopping to pet a stray dog that had wandered by and giving The Blue Moon Inn a wide berth.  She paused in front of Thesallia’s clothes shop. Should she stop in? Her clothes were starting to get a little tatty, and you never knew who she could run into inside...

Before she could make a decision, however, she was accosted by a brightly-dressed crone in heavy makeup. 

“Adventurer!” the old woman said, wringing her hands. “You’re in terrible danger!”

“Aris,” Teiran greeted. “Last week I nearly got crushed to death by a rockslide in the Dwarven Mines of Ice Mountain. The week before that, I had fend off half a dozen zombies in the Draynor Sewers. Just yesterday, I nearly got turned into a raw chicken by the Chaos Elemental. Your concerns are kind, but I think being in danger is part of my job description.”

“It is not what you think!” the fortuneteller said. “Your very existence is in peril!”

“I get told that about twice a month. It’s starting to get a little stale, honestly.”

Aris sighed in frustration. “Just come into my tent. I’ve seen to it that there is tea on the brew.”

Teiran was about to protest that she was busy, but she couldn’t refuse a cuppa. “Fine.”

Aris led her towards the brightly-colored tent next to Thessalia’s. Before Teiran could enter, however, the blinking eye sign in front of the fortuneteller's abode swiveled towards her and began to chirp. 

“What’s it doing?” She asked, as the eye eyeballed her unblinkingly. 

“It detects dark magic, my dear,” Aris said unconcernedly. “What have you got in your pockets?”

“Flax, mostly,” Teiran said, rummaging around. “Oh, and this.” She pulled out the pendant, which the eye locked on. 

“Give it to me, child,” Aris ordered. 

“Here,” Teiran said, handing the necklace over. “That thief by the rune shop will probably buy it for a few gold, you know.”

“I am not interested in black market exchanges!” Aris said, pocketing the pendant as she hobbled into the tent. “I will see to it that this object is destroyed.”

“It’s not really all that bad,” Teiran said, ducking under the flap. “I just got it off of one of Evil Dave’s friends. He was quite useless.”

“Do not be so easily deluded, traveler." Aris said, retrieving a teapot and two cracked mugs. “His kind are not to be underestimated. Don’t worry about the saucer, by the way, it was falling to bits as it was.”

Teiran was about to ask what she was talking about when she accidentally elbowed the china dish off the table. It fell to the floor and shattered. 

“Sorry, dear,” Aris said, as Teiran stared at the scattered pieces. “I forgot to turn off my clairvoyance. I’m out of sugar, by the way.”

Teiran shut her mouth before she could ask. Dealing with Aris already gave her enough of a headache; she didn’t need one in multiple timelines.

Instead she asked, “What do you mean by ‘His kind?' Lucien looked pretty human to me.”

“An illusion,” Aris said. “The Children of Mah are skilled magic users; the Mahjarrat, perhaps most of all.”

“Mahjarrat?” Teiran said. “I’ve met a couple. Athankakos and Enakhra. Squabbled like a pair of siblings. The other one — Jhallan was his name. Bit of a demanding prick. He’s frozen in a block of ice in any case, up in Rellekka.”

“I doubt he will live much longer, then,” Aris said. “A passive Mahjarrat is mere cannon fodder in the eyes of its brethren.”

“Fine then. So this Lucien bloke is a Mahjarrat. What does this have to do with me?” She took a sip of her tea, suppressing a curse as it burned her lips.

“He is power-hungry. A natural state for his tribe, but he is more…  _ ambitious  _ than most. He seeks objects that will give him that power. I fear he will find them.”

“Can I stop him, then?”

Aris sighed. “I do not know. I simply recommend that you stay vigilant.”

“Add it to the pile,” Teiran said.  _ Right after watching out for the Fairy Godfather, Lord Iorwerth, Amascut, Glough, the KGP, Mother Mallum, and all those farmers I pickpocketed in Catherby. _

Aris sipped from her mug. “And about your man…”

Teiran nearly choked on her tea. “How do you know about that?!” She said, louder than she meant to. “And he’s not my man, I mean, I wouldn’t call him that…”

“Whatever you wish to call him,” Aris said prudently, “is not my concern. I would warn you, however, that you do not let him do anything… brash.”

Teiran gave her a blank look. “Being brash is what being an adventurer is all about. What could I do — keep him in a locked room padded with pillows?”

“The clouds of the future obscure the specifics,” Aris said. “All I can say is that you must be careful.”

“Ok, ok. We’ll be careful,” Teiran said. “You never answered my question about knowing about him, by the way.”

The fortuneteller rolled her eyes. “I am a psychic, child. There is little that occurs in this realm that evades my gaze.”

She then added: “And the Lumbridge Sage is an absolute gossip.”

_ Damn that sage! _ Teiran fumed.  She stood up. “I’d love to stay and chat about the future and such,” she said, “But I really must get going.” 

“Very well, child,” Aris said. “Enjoy your afternoon.”

The knowing spark in the fortuneteller's eye made Teiran exceedingly uncomfortable, and she turned as quickly as possible towards the door. 

“One more thing!” Aris called. Teiran stopped.

“You’re not going to tell me to beware the Ides of Moevyng, are you?” She asked wearily. 

“No. Do not visit the Grand Exchange. Flax is down, my dear, but it will spike in about a week and a half, when the price of yew drops.”

“Isn’t that insider trading, Aris?”

“Not if you heard it from me,” she said with a wink.


	15. Dragontooth Island

For the first time, Teiran arrived at the bridge before Cyrisus did. True, it  _ was _ probably only around 3:15, but she’d finished pruning the White Tree faster than she anticipated, and the forgone trip to the GE had saved her time. And besides, she told herself — the sun’s angle was a little off when you accounted for all the buildings in Varrock. 

She didn’t have to wait long, in any case. Ten minutes after she arrived, Cyrisus materialized a few feet away. When he saw her, he rushed up and kissed her, an act which turned Teiran’s brain to total mush. 

“Hello to you too,” she laughed, as they broke apart. “Long time no see.”

“Hello,” he said, grinning. “It  _ has _ been long. Six hours too long.”

“Mmm.” She circled her arms around his neck, not caring for the stares of the Lumbridge citizens that passed by. “How was your day?”

“Busy. Roland’s doing well, but he’s starting trying to teeth on the sconces, so I had to forge him an adamantite plate. Then Blaze needed help repairing some of the beacons around Morytania, which took up most of the afternoon. What did you do?”

“Tidied up a bit. Did some gardening.” Teiran contemplated mentioning her conversation with Gypsy Aris, but decided not to. What good would it do, anyways? It’s not like the advice was particularly useful — except maybe the bit about the flax. 

“It was all rather mundane, really,” she said instead. “I’ve an idea of where we can go this afternoon, by the way. Have you ever been to Port Phasmatys?”

“I have, but I’ve never stayed long.”

“Why not?”

“”Wooooo, woooo, wooo,’” doesn’t make for much of a conversation.” 

“You’ll be wanting a ghostspeak amulet then,” she said, digging around in her bag. “I tricked Father Uhrney into giving me a spare, so we should be all set.”

She pulled out a skull-shaped necklace, as well as a bottle of green slime. “Hold on.”

She dumped the content of the Ectophial onto the ground. The ectoplasm bubbled, surrounding them with a green smoke. As it cleared, the surroundings of Lumbridge had been replaced with a waterlogged forest and a crumbling, slime-covered tower.

“Have they ever thought of giving that a wash?” Cyrisus said, looking it up and down. “I’m not sure if all that goo is good for the foundation. Watch behind you, by the way.”

Teiran turned. An opportunistic feral vampyre was was barreling towards her, claws up and fangs out. 

“Bloody nuisances,” she muttered. She took out her whip and, with a flick, wrapped it around the creature’s throat. She snapped her wrist back, tightening it instantly. The vampyre thrashed and hissed on the ground as it slowly collapsed to dust.

“I’ve tried clearing out this part a few times already,” she said, disgustedly. “Those buggers just keep coming back. The Myreque need to step up their game.”

It was only really a matter of paying the ghostly boat captain after that, and a few minutes later they were setting off across the water. They said nothing, merely watched the seagulls cry overhead as gloomy Morytania disappeared behind them, shrouded by clean, pale mist. 

The two sat a respectable distance from each other, or as much as they could on the tiny bench on their half of the dinghy. Nevertheless, his hand managed to find hers, resting on the rough wood.

They arrived. 

Cyrisus stepped off the boat, taking in the scenery. “How come you know all the nice, quiet places?” he asked. “And I don’t?”

Teiran laughed. “I’m not quite sure. I suppose I just gravitate towards them.” 

The ghost captain set off again, leaving them alone. Teiran sat on a patch of grass, and patted the place next to her. 

“There’s nothing on here, really,” she said, as Cyrisus sat beside her. “Just trees and an old statue. Nobody ever really comes around.”

She hugged her knees and looked to the horizon, watched the sun glint off the distant waves.

“For someone sick of the ocean, you rather like watching it,” he pointed out. 

“Hmm,” she grunted in reply. “Old habits die hard, I suppose. I used to do this all the time as a kid. Helped me think.”

“Of what?”

“Something other than Tutorial Island.”

Cyrisus watched with her for awhile. “Do you think there’s something past this?” he said, after a bit.

“What? Like islands?”

“Yes. New lands. Unconquered regions. Things like that.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged, and pointed to the distant horizon. “One thing’s for sure: Far off beyond what we can see is the edge.”

“The edge?”

“Well, yeah. The world’s got to end somewhere.”

“No it’s not!” He retorted. “Gielinor is supposed to round!”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense. How would we stay on?”

“Gravity,” Cyrisus said. “One of the wizards explained it to me. You see, you have this rubber sheet, and a bowling ball…”

He tried explaining it, at one point drawing a diagram in the sand. By the end, however, Teiran still didn’t get it.

“So you’re saying,” she said slowly, “that there’s this invisible force that’s in the center of Gielinor, which is powered by magnets, and it spins around and around which is why there’s daytime and nighttime, and that’s what’s keeping us from flying off into space even though the world’s a ball?”

“Yes?” Cyrisus said. “The wizard was much better at explaining it.”

She considered this for a moment, before turning her view back to the ocean. 

“I still think it’s flat.”

Cyrisus sighed. “You’re hopeless.”

“Not entirely,” she argued. “My granny thought it was on the back of a turtle.”

Cyrisus merely sighed again, and reached into his bag. “If you won’t accept my arguments about science, then will you at least accept this choc-ice?”

“Gladly.” She took the frozen bar from him and bit into it, immediately regretting the brain freeze.

“Whatever’s out there,” Cyrisus said, as he unwrapped his own bar, “edge, islands, what have you. I want to go see it.”

“There’s nothing stopping you, you know,” she said. “I’m sure you can buy a ship. Hire some sailors. Recruit some people from the Dig Site. You could be off in a month, if you really wanted.”

“I could.” The wind was picking up now, sending a light chill into the air that whistled through the pine trees. “I could have done it years ago. I was too scared before, of what monsters I might run into.”

“Why not go now?”

“I’ve asked myself that,” he said. “I think I want to see all of Gielinor before anything else.”  He paused. “And you’re here.”

She didn’t reply, smirking. Instead, she reached over and squeezed his hand, which was resting on his lap. He squeezed back. 

“I could go with you,” she said. “If you want. We could discover it together.”

“Mmm,” he said. “I’d like that.”

He shuffled closer to her until their sides touched, and she let herself lean on him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Three days,” she said. “A lot’s happened, hasn’t it?”

“It has.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. It was a small gesture, but it nonetheless filled her chest with a warm glow. 

The sun began to dip below the horizon, turning the sea scarlet. Waves crashed against the shore, sighing like some great sleeping animal before them. He was next to her. She was next to him. The world was at peace. 

“Let’s stay this way,” she said. 


	16. Lullaby

Life continued.

In a lot of ways, it was the same. Teiran still went on quests and worked on her skills and killed things. Miscellania and Etceteria still squabbled. The Lumbridge Sage still gave her funny looks. She had yet to sell all the flax from the Chaos Elemental. She wasn’t sure if she ever would.

In certain ways, however, it was better. For one thing, there was Cyrisus in it. 

They tried not to see each other every day at the start. That more or less went out the window after they happened to coincidentally run into each other far more frequently than happenstance should have dictated. Even then, it was fleeting — as fleeting as they could get away with, in any case, before they had to whatever shenanigans occupied their respective days.

Marianne had, by now, gotten used to her employer not coming home for long stretches, and said it was just as well that she didn’t have to change the sheets so often. When asked if she could use her newly-found free time to plan a bank robbery, however, Teiran put her foot down.

The last day of the week was always theirs. No quests. No favours. No plans. Just them. 

And, in a lot of ways, it was like before. They’d show eachother new places, do new things. Or they’d go to old places and do old things, but just having someone else to do it with made it new and beautiful. 

It was the little things, too, that gave life a new shine. The fleeting touches as they passed each other. The times she’d catch him looking at her, eyes unabashedly full of affection. Snogging behind barricades and old, abandoned rooms in some ancient pyramid. 

Even just laying with him filled her with peace. They’d say nothing, and she just let herself be held, and she’d let her thoughts lapse into blissful oblivion.

Being with him… she felt safe. Of course, she nearly always felt safe, in the way that having the confidence to beat up anything that attacked her to a thorough pulp granted her a sense of security. She wouldn’t trade that for anything.

But that kind of safe… it was a guarded safety. One that she had to maintain with armour and weapons and vigilance. And there was always a bigger fish. She remembered the first time she’d run into a revenant in the Wilderness, while she was combing one of the old ruins for spare planks. She’d been feeling fairly strong, having just defeated her first blue dragon, and reckoned that she could take on whatever came her way. 

That is, right up until the moment the ghostly hobgoblin had hit her with a stun spell and mercilessly attempted to tear her to shreds.

She wasn’t sure how she escaped, between the frantic running, dodging spells and the sheer terror. She did remember collapsing in Edgeville after tripping over the ditch, teleporting back to Lumbridge and vowing to never enter the Wildy again. 

Of course, she returned to the same spot a month later, this time with better armour and her newly-obtained abyssal whip. The monster only ended up dropping a handful of coins, but the revenge was sweeter than any amount of loot she could have gotten. 

There was safety in that feeling of strength, yes. A tiring kind of safety, but safety nonetheless.

But when he held her in his arms, it melted. She felt both vulnerable and invincible. If she could defeat anything that came their way, then he could defend her while she did it. She the sword, and him the shield. 

And it felt effortless. She could rest. Nothing could hurt them — not when they were laying like this together. Nothing would be strong enough to even try. 

Life moved forward. Slowly. Quickly. Beautifully. Weeks slid by like water, but she’d stop sometimes and wonder why a few months in the past felt like another century. 

Then there had been that night on Dragontooth Island....

* * *

Teiran couldn’t even remember what they’d done that day. Maybe they’d gone to ride ugthanki. Maybe they’d gone exploring Tirannwn. Maybe they’d fought the King Black Dragon together. Whatever it was, it ended up with Cyrisus suggesting that they go stargazing. 

He had wanted to go to the Observatory, but she countered that the lights of Yanille and Castle Wars spoiled the effect, and Dragontooth Island was quieter in any case.

She was right. The night sky was better than she’d seen it anywhere else; endless stars, spattered above them, interrupted by nothing more than a few pine trees. Even the faint glow of the Ectofuntus, far off on the mainland, barely impeded on the display. 

The moon was a faint silver sliver, hovering close to the horizon like a sickle that cut through the ocean. 

They were sprawled out of the cold grass, holding hands, awestruck. He pointed out the constellations, naming them one by one.

“That one’s Leo,” he said, pointing to a cluster of stars to the east. “The one next to it is Virgo.”

“Hmmm,” she said, squinting at the constellations. “We never called it that back home. On Tutorial Island, they were The Shaikahan and The Mage.”

“What about that one?” He said, pointing to an oblong arrangement to the west. “I know that one as Aquarius.”

She scrutinized it. “Rat Eating String Bean, if I can recall correctly.”*

He considered this. “To be fair, it does look rather more like a rat eating a string bean than some fellow pouring water.”

She laughed, and, on impulse, rolled over onto his chest.

“Oh no,” he said, faking distress. “A terrible creature has come to ambush me! Oh, whatever shall I do?”

She snickered. “I’m pretty terrible, I’ll give you that. All you can really hope for is that your death isn’t prolonged.”

He laughed, and pulled her into a kiss. 

On the island’s shore, the waves gently lapped, and the water reflected the celestial ceiling above, making the sky seem infinite. 

She let go a minute later, their breath fogging in the cold night air. He held her, stars reflecting in his eyes. 

“I love you,” he said, simply. 

Time stopped.

When she looked back to that moment, it had seemed like the universe ceased spinning. She couldn’t hear the water, or feel the chill, or even the cool grass against her hands. There was only her, and him, laying beneath her like he was all of Gielinor. 

She breathed in.

“I love you, too.” And she meant it. 

And she kissed him again, deeply, relentlessly. And she didn’t care if the Zanaris Choir could see them. 

* * *

The moon had risen higher now, its light blotting out some of the stars around its pale halo. It had gotten colder now, and despite the warmth of Cyrisus next to her, Teiran was on the cusp of suggesting they head home.

“The statue,” he said, suddenly, before she could ask. “The one here — I was thinking about it. It looks rather old. Do you know anything about it?”

She shrugged. “It’s just Saradomin. Reldo told me some settlers left it behind long ago.”

“You don’t sound impressed.”

“Why would I be? It’s just some lump of rock carved to look like an old man.”

“I take it you’re not particularly devout, then.”

“Only when I need to protect against melee,” she said. “Honestly, I don’t believe in the gods.”

As she said this, a bolt of lighting shot down from the clear night sky. It struck a small pine sapling, which summarily exploded.

Before the timber even stopped smoking, the earth cracked open by her feet. A skeletal hand reached out, feebly grabbing for her foot.

Teiran rolled her eyes and kicked. The skeleton’s arm flew, landing in the ocean some distance away with a faint splash. 

Cyrisus gave her a doubting look. “I’m pretty sure the gods are real, Teiran. I don’t think it’s possible  _ not _ to believe in them.”

“Sure I can.” She picked a splinter of pine out of her hair. “I don’t believe in Rick Turpentine, but he keeps showing up and offering me a spinach roll every time I walk to Rimmington.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “When you’ve been through the muck of Morytania and seen what Zamorakian vampires did there… When you’ve fought a bunch of Saradominist ninnies who’d rather exterminate a peaceful race of cave goblins than get their heads out of their arses… When you’ve heard about why the Wilderness is why it is from a giant earwig… eh. You kind of get turned off by it all. The gods don’t need believing in.”

“That’s rather a Guthixian point of view.”

“Hmph,” she grunted. “I’m not going to go around worshiping someone just because they went and created the Gielinor or whatever. He would have gone without inventing jellyfish, for one thing.” She turned to Cyrisus. “What about you?”

He sighed. “My dad used to take me to Ardougne’s Saradominist church once a week, but I don’t think it really stuck. I was trying to figure out which pews were best to hide under.”

“I suppose we’re on the same boat, then.” She sat up and hugged her knees against the cold. 

He stayed back on the ground, watching the slowly-turning stars.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’d like to think that someone’s watching out for me. For us.”

He paused. “I mean, what do you suppose happens when you die?”

She gave him a strange look. “Bit of a morbid topic, don’t you think?”

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just… I thought about it. Quite a bit. Probably because I was so scared of it. I know I thought about it back in the cave. I thought it was going to happen to me, at the time.”

She didn’t reply at first, instead finding his now-cold hand resting on the grass and squeezing it. He kept staring at the sky, deep and dark and eternally high. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve been told to go to hell enough that I’ve more or less figured I have a seat down there reserved for me, but that’s as best as I can guess. What do you think?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t either.”

He squeezed her hand back. “We could find each other,” he said. “If there’s anywhere to meet. I’d wait for you.”

She paused. “Then I will, too.”

Off in the distance, a large fish leapt from the water, arcing gracefully, before diving back down again. It had something white and bony in its mouth. 

“Teiran,” Cyrisus said suddenly. Something in his voice made her look to him. As she did, he saw his eyes were filled with fear.

“I’m scared,” he said, quietly. “Of losing you.”

“Why would you be?” She reached over and touched his cheek, bristly with stubble and damp with sea-spray and dew.  “I can protect myself. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I do anyways.”

She smiled, a little sadly. “I won’t give you any reason to, then.”

She kissed him on the cheek, softly, and stood up. “Need a hand?

He nodded. “Please. I think my legs fell asleep.”

Even as he got up he didn’t let her go, and instead pulled her closer in a tight hug. She hugged him back, and relished the remaining warmth his body still gave her.

“I hope I didn’t scare you,” he said. “I didn’t want to be so grim, but…”

“It’s fine,” she said. “It had to come up at some point or another. But no more talk of death.”

She breathed in, and smelled salt and sea and earth.

“Let’s go home.”

* * *

_ It was an endless dark desert that stretched before her; its sand was black, and it crunched beneath her feet like broken glass, and the sky above glittered with millions of unfamiliar stars. _

_ There was a mountain, too, far ahead. It cut across the horizon, dark green against the black, a carved statue of jade that for all the world looked like a man lying on his side. _

_ She was holding something. She looked down at the pendant in her hand, which was remarkably similar to the one she thought she’d given to Aris, all those months ago. _

_ As she looked at it, it grew colder — or perhaps hotter? — and it began to sear into her hand. She dropped it with a yelp, though the pain remained, and the necklace sank into the sand, out of sight. _

_ Had it been a trick of the light? Or, for a moment, had it seemed like she’d had two shadows? _

_ She looked up. The mountain was still there, vast and verdant; however, it was joined in its recline by a smaller, darker body in front of it. _

_ Covered in bruises and cuts.... _

_ “No,” she whispered, and she ran towards him. The wind picked up, cutting her face with grains of sand, but she didn’t care. As she reached him, she half-stumbled, her knees sinking into the ground.  _

_ “Cyrisus,” she said, touching his face. It was as pale as death, and ice-cold under her fingers… _

_ “Cyrisus!” She shouted. He didn’t respond. Desperate, she pressed an ear to his chest. _

_ Nothing. _

_ “No. No. Shit,” she muttered. “No!” _

_ The world was growing darker. Still, she held onto him, and tried to control the twisted knot of terror that had taken over her stomach. _

_ The wind howled and whistled among the night-black dunes. Through it, she thought she could hear cruel, mocking laughter. _

* * *

Teiran woke up with a jolt. 

Her heart racing, she took inventory of her surroundings. In bed? Check. Wearing one of Cyrisus’ pilfered shirts? Check. 

Cyrisus himself? Asleep, snoring softly beside her. 

Her chest unknotted itself, and she exhaled.

What had scared her so? She tried to recall the dream — no, the nightmare — that had forced her awake, but the more she tried to remember it, the more it slipped away, like sand escaping from her fingers.

Sand… why was she thinking of that? Why was she rubbing her hand like it had been stung?

And why were her cheeks wet with tears?

She hastily wiped her face with the bedsheet.  _ It was just a dream, _ she told herself.  _ Probably sparked by late-night curry and existential conversations about death.  _

Still, as she curled back under the blankets and pressed herself closer to him, Teiran couldn’t help but feel a small, devious tendril of fear. 

* * *

*The people of Tutorial Island are rather literal in their celestial nomenclature. As such, island children grow up learning, on dark night sky, where to find The Mackerel, Rat Eating String Bean, The Triangular Sandwich, Bree, The Burnt Shrimp, The Law Rune, The Mage, The Shaikahan, The Pickaxe, The Dairy Cow, The Pack Yak, and Cancer.


	17. Long Way Home

“Lucien is on the move.”

Teiran shivered, despite the warm weather of Taverley. The doubts she’d had as soon as the Legend’s Guildmaster mentioned a temple to Guthix had since multiplied; Thaerisk’s look as she entered the house, and the two dead assassins currently at her feet, didn’t help.

Mention of Lucien’s name, however, may have been the nail in the coffin. 

“The Mahjarrat?” she said. “The last time I saw him, he was in Edgeville. He said he was headed north.”

The druid raised an eyebrow. “You know his true nature, then,” Thaerisk said. “You thwarted him from obtaining the Staff of Armadyl, yes?”

“More or less.”

“I fear he has managed to capture it, nonetheless. He now seeks another such artifact.”

“How can one staff cause much trouble?” She asked. “Granted, I’ve been able to whack a greater demon to death with one, but that took a fair amount of effort.”

The druid shook his head. “The weapon Lucien seeks — or, as I worry, already possess — would be able to reduce an army of greater demons to ash without him having to lift a finger. If he obtains any further power, then we may be too late.”

“What do you want me to do, then? Find him and kill him?”

“No. He is too powerful for you to face on your own. Even now, we are communing with the Temple Knights and the Guardians of Armadyl to try and build some sort of opposing force.” He eyed the window anxiously, as if daring something to enter the hut a second time. When nothing did, he turned back to her.

“In the meantime, we need information. Have you heard of the mage Movario?”

“Movario, Movario…” She muttered. “Yes, I’ve met him once. Weaselly bugger. He was skulking around in the Lumbridge swamp caves last I saw him. Had a Khazard bodyguard with him.”

The druid nodded. “Duly noted. I need you to find out more about him.”

“You think he’s working for Lucien?”

“We suspect so.” Thaerisk scratched his beard thoughtfully. “In any case, he is a lead worth tracking. Reldo in the Varrock Library might know about him.”

“Fine enough,” she said. She looked down at the assassins again. “Will you be needing any additional assistance greeting unexpected guests?”

Thaerisk cracked his knuckles. “I don't think so. But I will call you if I need anything.”

“Ok. I’ll be off.”

The druid nodded gravely. “Be careful, adventurer,” he said. “Danger lurks.”

* * *

“Movario? Yes, he’s been here a few times.”

Reldo picked up a book from the pile in his arms and placed it, delicately, on the shelf. Teiran craned her neck to read the spine. 

“ _Betrayal at Falador,_ ” she read. “Is it any good?”

“Rather,” he said. “Slightly off-canon, though.”

“Off-canon?”

“Never you mind,” he said. “In any case, why do you need to learn about Movario?”

“What do you know?”

Reldo thought for a moment. “Knows his Dewey Decimal system. Doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s reading. Bit of a Khazard accent.”

“Any idea where he lives?” 

“No.” Reldo picked up another book from the pile and made a face. “I really ought to toss this one, but Queen Ellamaria insists on keeping it.”

Teiran glanced at the cover. “ _Survivor's Mercy?”_

“Written by, I suspect, a 15-year-old,” he said, forcefully shoving it on the shelf. 

“Any idea how to track his place down, then?”

Reldo shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m a librarian, not an expert tracker. You’d probably want someone more equipped to handle that.” He appeared to consider something for a moment, and then disappeared around the corner to another shelf. 

When he returned, he had another book with him, which he shoved into Teiran’s arms. 

“ _Tier Zoo,_ ” he said. “It’s rather enlightening. It’s got a good bit about tracking animals, though you’d probably want to talk to an expert for the details.”

“Thanks,” she said, shoving it in her bag. 

“It’s due back in three days, and then it’s five gold a day fine after that.” He then turned back and gave her a particularly fierce look. “And no folding down the pages!”

“I won’t.” She turned to exit the library, but Reldo stopped her.

“One more thing,” he said. “Movario is a little… grisly. I haven’t seen anything directly, but I’ve heard a few things. Apparently he’s doing research work for someone unsavory, so watch your back.”

She nodded. “Will do.”

As she left the palace, she couldn’t help but glance over to Aris’ tent. The fortuneteller seemed to be out — the flap was closed, and the eye was shut. 

_There’s no need for me to stop by. I don’t need to hear something I already know,_ she thought to herself. _RuneScape is under the threat of some megalomaniac every other week. If you play your cards right, you can have this finished by tea-time._

Even as she told herself this, however, she couldn’t shake the sense of unease that trailed her. 

* * *

She’d been wrong about the tea-time estimate. By the time she’d read through the book, found the hunting expert, caught a borav after multiple, muddy, sweaty attempts, charmed her way to some dirty laundry, found the base, attempted to unlock the door, failed to unlock the door, fought some guards, gotten electrocuted twice, disarmed some bookshelves, narrowly avoided being killed by a booby-trapped treasure box, dug through Movario’s trash, stole some notes, and did far too much arithmetic than should have been required for opening a godsdamn door, it was night.

Teiran stood outside the Khazard fortress, just out of sight of the sentries, and looked down at the loosely-bound pile of papers in her hand. She supposed she should get them to Thaerisk as soon as possible… But she was also tired, sweaty, covered in cuts and bruises, and smelling distressingly of pig.

The druid could wait. She needed a shower, and some sleep.

* * *

Rimmington was quiet when she teleported there. The only thing that illuminated the little town was the faint glow of the house portal; even the moon itself was dark. 

“Must be late,” she muttered, as she stepped inside. “Lost track of time in that damn basement…”

The house, too, was quiet, which was unusual; usually Marianne left a few lights on upstairs so she didn’t stumble around in the dark. 

“I’m home!” Teiran called, kicking off her boots before she stepped inside. “Sorry about the smell, I can leave my clothes by the laundry tub if that’s easier for —”

She stopped. Marianne had appeared in the hallway, holding a carving knife, her face pale. The corridor behind her was pitch-black, and Teiran couldn’t see past her.

“There you are,” Teiran said. “What’s wrong with you? You look ill.”

The maid didn’t look at her, instead staring forward, unblinkingly. 

“I’m t-t-terribly s-sorry, miss,” she stammered, her voice flat and faint. “I’ve g-g-gone and sh-sh-sh-shattered your granny’s fine china, miss.”

“You did?” Teiran said. Slowly, she reached into her bag. “Which set?”

“Th-the one in the k-kitchen, miss,” Marianne said. “It w-w-was right b-b-behind me and I didn’t see, miss.”

Teiran nodded. “Such a shame,” she said, her hands closing around the object she’d been looking for. “I rather liked the one with the DUCK!”

The maid dove to the floor as Teiran pulled out the crossbow and fired two shots in quick succession. One hit the mantel and ricocheted, embedding itself about an inch into the floor. The other one hit something in the dark corridor behind where Marianne had been. The bolt struck with a wet noise, followed by the heavy _thunk_ of a body landing on the floor.

The maid peeked up from the ground. “Behind you, miss!”

Teiran turned just in time to dodge the sword of a second figure, who had managed to creep up unnoticed. Teiran stepped back and unfurled her whip, slapping the blade out of the man’s hand before he could swing a second time. She gave the whip another flick and wrapped it around his arm, twisting her wrist and letting the Abyssal energy crackle along her weapon. 

The intruder seized, his body jerking around like a ragdoll before collapsing to his knees, panting. Teiran held the crossbow to his face. 

“You know,” she said, cocking the string, “I really, really hate it when people drop by unannounced.”

The man said nothing. He was dressed all in black and wore some sort of face-cover, concealing everything but his eyes, which were full of fury. Teiran held the crossbow a little closer.

“Tell me,” she said. “Are there any other blokes in this house? Left standing, I mean.”

The man glared. “I’m not telling you anything, Saradominist scum!”

Teiran shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She pointed the crossbow considerably lower.

The assassin paled, in the unique way of a man with certain body parts in uncertain peril. “Th-three of us in total,” he choked. “Me, Dickie over there, and Pheartree in the kitchen.”

“I took care of that last one, miss!” the maid called out. “He tried sneaking up on me whilst I was carving up a chicken, and I gave him a few new breathing holes, miss, before the others ambushed me!”

“There’s a bonus this month in for you yet, Marianne,” Teiran said, before turning her attention back to the intruder. “Who sent you?”

“I don’t know!”

Teiran put her finger on the trigger. The man squealed. 

“I’m not lying! I swear!” He squeaked. “Some fellow in a dark cloak hired me in Edgeville! Paid me up front and said I’d get double when the job was done!”

“Hmmmph.” She released the whip from his wrist, but still kept the crossbow pointed at his nethers.

“I’ll be frank with you,” she said. “It’s been a long day, and adding another body to drag to the compost heap to my list of tasks just sounds tiring. So I’m going to be nice.”

She pointed to the house portal. “You’ve got five seconds to get out of my godsdamn house before I permanently raise your voice another octave. And if I ever see you again, you’d better be a monk on Entrana, because if I have weapons around me I will _not_ hesitate to use them on you.”

The man nodded, slowly.

Teiran sighed. “One,” she said. “Two.”

The man bolted, scrambling to the portal in a terrified half-crawl. As soon as she saw the soles of his boots disappear, Teiran rushed over to Marianne, keeping her crossbow pointed at the door.

“Are you ok?” She asked, as she helped the maid up off the floor. “They didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m fine, miss. One of ‘em pointed a sword at me, but that’s the worst they did.”

“Ok. I’m glad you’re safe. Hold this and keep it aimed at the portal,” she said, handing the maid the crossbow. Then, she flicked a fire spell in her hands and stepped into the darkened hallway. 

The second assassin was face-down on the floor, a scarlet puddle of blood slowly oozing from their head. Teiran turned them over; it was another man. He had a crossbow bolt sticking out of his eyes. Needless to say, he was quite dead.

 _My aim is getting better,_ she thought, absentmindedly. As she moved the body, something glinted around its neck. 

Cautiously, she picked it up, the chain of the pendant keeping it tethered to the assassin. Set in a small, golden triangle, a small green gem glittered, evilly. 

Despite the lack of drafts in the house, Teiran felt a chill. 

She got up. “We can’t stay here,” she declared. 

“Why not, miss? We were fine after the black knight incident.”

Teiran shook her head. “These… are a different sort. We shouldn’t linger. Where did you say the other body was?”

“Kitchen, miss.”

“Ok. I’m going to fetch some things and get rid of the corpses. Keep the crossbow on the door and shoot anything that comes through it. Got it?”

“Yes, miss. Where shall we go, miss?”

“I’ve an idea.”

Teiran stepped over the body and dashed down the hall. The fire in her hands cast ghastly shadows on the walls as she ran, which she did her best not to pay attention to. When she arrived at her room, she made a beeline for the desk, scrabbling in a box of runes as her heart raced.

_Astral, air, earth, water, fire… c’mon, where are the cosmics? Ah, here we go._

Runes in hand, she cast Contact and called Cyrisus, who picked up almost immediately. 

“Hello,” he greeted. “How are you?”

“Not great,” she said. “Are you home?”

“Yes,” he said. His voice had become urgent — he must have picked up on the panic in her voice.

“Good. Marianne and I are heading over.”

“Ok. Do you want me to fetch you?”

She shook her head. “Stay where you are. I’ll be there shortly.”

“If you’re not here in five minutes, I’ll come looking.”

“Fine. See you soon.”

Before he could reply, she let the spell fizzle. She then scanned her room, grabbed a few miscellaneous objects, and headed for the kitchen.

Marianne was still keeping post when Teiran returned to the entrance hall, her arms laden with several vials and a large jar. As she stepped in, she knelt by the body in the corridor and whispered a few words. A moment later, it vanished. 

“I teleported the corpses somewhere over Mort Myre,” Teiran said, setting the vials down. “I don’t know how long we’ll be gone, and we can’t have them stinking up the place.” 

The maid nodded, never taking her eyes off the door. Teiran uncorked a few vials and dumped them, seemingly at random, into the jar. She gave the concoction a brief shake, then headed over to the portal and dumped it on the floor just in front of it.

“Thank gods,” she said, as the mixture bubbled and smoked, “I had some extra coal-tar.”

She turned to Marianne. “It’ll stain, I’m afraid. But if we’re lucky, some poor stupid mercenary is going to step on that when we’re not here.”

“What will it do, miss?”

“Let’s just say it’ll take half the job out of floorboard removal and replacement,” she said, tossing the empty jar to the side. “I’m going to teleport us now. Best give me the crossbow.”

The maid nodded, and handed Teiran the weapon, who stuffed it in her bag before grabbing Marianne by the shoulder. 

“Got everything you need?” She asked. Marianne nodded. 

“Right then. Here we —”

She teleported mid-sentence, and narrowly avoided crashing into an ornamental marble fountain as the two landed in Cyrisus’ garden.

Cyrisus was waiting there, clad in full dragon armor and wielding a sword, staring intensely at the portal. She soon as he saw them, however, he relaxed. 

“You’re alright,” he said, relieved. “Thank gods.”

Teiran let go of Marianne, who immediately curtseyed. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Cyrisus, sir,” she said. “I do apologize on such my disheveled appearance, what on account of the assassins and all.”

His eyes widened. “Assassins?”

Teiran gave him a side glance. _We need to talk,_ it said. _Alone._

Cyrisus noticed it, and nodded.

“Marianne,” Teiran said. “It’s been a long night. You should turn in. Cyrisus, do you have a bedroom you spare?”

He nodded. “Up the stairs and to your right. Asmodeus should have just changed the linens.”

The maid bobbed. “Thank you kindly, sir,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning, miss.”

With that, she turned and headed inside.

As soon as the door closed, Cyrisus grabbed Teiran, pulling her close and holding her tight. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on, thankful for something solid. 

“Are you ok?” he whispered. She realized that his hands, which held onto her arms, were shaking.

She nodded. “I’m just a little rattled,” she said. Even as she said it, though, her voice shook.

“Let’s get you inside,” he said, taking her hand. She let him lead her to the couch, where she collapsed. For about a minute, she could do nothing but stare at the mahogany-stained table in front of her, willing her heart to slow down. 

“What happened?” Cyrisus asked. He was worried — she could tell, from the way his voice trembled, and from the clammy feel of his hand against hers. And he had every right to be. 

She took a deep breath. 

“I think,” she said, “I may have gotten in over my head.”


	18. Dangerous Logic

“Lucien? I’ve heard of him before.”

They were both sitting on the couch now. Cyrisus had brought her tea and convinced her to take off her armour, but Teiran still kept the whip and the crossbow in arm’s reach. 

Roland was sleeping by the door, his head resting on the hill giant bone he’d been gnawing on before. The dragon was past his baby stage now, having reached the size of a dalmatian. While he no longer tried to teethe on everything, he shed scales and tried to set things on fire when he was bored.

The dragon and Cyrisus next to her were both comforting, but she still couldn’t shake the sense of unease that lingered — or the inexplicable itch in her right palm. 

“How do you know about him?” she asked. 

“He used to hang around The Flying Horse a lot,” Cyrisus said. “I never really got a good look at him. He always kept his face covered. I’d heard he was looking for people to do odd jobs — but they all involved fighting. This was before I met you, so you can figure why I didn’t ask.”

When she heard this, she tried not to think about what would have happened if Cyrisus  _ had _ taken the job — or if he’d been the one to break into her house that night. 

“That’s all you know about him?” She said instead. 

“Pretty much. And that he goes through mercenaries like Bert goes through buckets.”

“Hmmm.” She picked up the sheaf of notes she’d retrieved from Movario’s office. “Can you make any sense of these? I haven’t had the chance to look at them much, but just looking at the handwriting makes my head hurt.” 

He took the loosely-bound bundle and flicked through the pages.

“It keeps referencing the Fist of Guthix,” he said, pointing to a rather hastily-drawn passage. “Whoever wrote it —”

“Movario.”

“ —Movario. He seemed rather upset about it.”

“So? It’s a funny game where all the druids shout at you while you run about in an old arena with that weird hexagon in the middle.”

“No, he seems to be talking about an artefact of some sort.”

Teiran fell back with a groan. “Don’t tell me he’s after some maguffiny wossname of ultimate power. Lucien already has one of those.”

Cyrisus put down the bundle. “I think I might have read something about it somewhere... give me a moment.”

He went upstairs. While he was away, she scanned the notes, trying to glean something of use. 

Dragonkin… she snorted. They were a fairy tale, of course. She’d read about Robert the Strong defeating them in her childhood story books, and she’d heard Bob the Jagex cat rant about it in front of the Sphinx back in Menaphos, but they couldn’t possibly be real. 

She flipped through some more. Magic logs, Eye of Saradomin, Stone of Jas… none of it made any sense. Why would Lucien be chasing after a myth? 

Cyrisus returned with a pile of books in hand, which he placed on the table. He grabbed the one off the top of the pile and flipped through it, before pointing to a particular passage. 

“Here,” he said. “ _Annals of Ardougne,_ _Tales of the First Age._ “‘And thus didde the godde Guthixe anointe the first of us with runes, so formede byye the Stone, his Handde.’ Do you think it could be the same thing?”

Teiran shrugged. “I’m not sure. I was there when the first humans arrived on Gielinor, and I don’t recall seeing a wossname.”

“Wait, what?!”

“Long story,” she said. “Point being, whatever shiny rock or staff or fist or giant cabbage Lucien is after, the druids have roped me into stopping him. And from what I’ve seen so far, he’s a step above the average villain.”

Cyrisus took her hand. “Let me help you, then.”

“No.”

She didn’t know why she’d said it so quickly, almost without thinking. If anything, she could have welcomed an extra set of hands in this mess — and an extra pair of eyes to watch her back. 

But something within her — indescribable and visceral — resisted the notion of Cyrisus getting involved. 

He squeezed her hand. “Why not, if you don’t mind me asking? I understand if the druids want to keep a low profile, but I at least want to be around if you need to fight anything.”

“I….” she paused, mulling over her response. “It’s just a feeling. I know it’s something you can probably handle, but something about this whole job… it’s just  _ off _ . I’d rather you stay out of it for now. Ok?”

He nodded. “I’ll respect that,” he said, with some reservation in his voice. “But I don’t want anything happening to you.”

“I know.”

He kissed her on the cheek, softly. She relaxed somewhat, savouring the feeling of peace that it gave her.

“I love you Teiran,” he said. “Please don’t put yourself in any more danger than you need to.”

“I can’t promise that.” She sighed, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. “And I love you too.”

He didn’t reply, but instead wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly. She relaxed further, sinking into his embrace. 

“Let’s sleep,” she said. “I can deal with this in the morning.”

He nodded, and, to her surprise, tucked his arm under her knees and lifted her off the couch. She yelped in surprise — he hadn’t picked her up like that since they’d fought the Chaos Elemental. 

“I’ve got perfectly functioning legs, you know,” she said, as he carried her up the stairs. 

“I know,” he said. “I just felt like doing this.”

“Mmm.” He  _ had _ gotten stronger, if that was even possible. He hadn’t wobbled when he lifted her like before, and his grip didn’t feel as fleeting. 

She yawned. It  _ had _ been a long day. And she still needed a shower. 

“I wouldn’t worry, honestly,” she said sleepily. “I’m sure everything will work itself out tomorrow.”

* * *

The body fell to the forest floor with a dulled thud. Teiran pulled back her whip and ducked to the side, narrowly avoiding a fireball flung where her face had been half a moment before. 

The mage snarled, raising a hand wreathed in flame. “Armadyl scum!”

He prepared to fire another spell. She was too close to make effective use of her whip, and the thick copse of trees they were in limited her escape routes. So she went with the second-closest weapon at hand.

With a roar, she lowered her head and charged forward, connecting with the wizard’s chest and sending him flying backwards. He half-landed on the ground, stumbling and skidding over the slippery moss until his head met a tree with a sickening crunch. There, he lay still. 

Teiran straightened out her hat, shaking the stars out of her vision. “Should’ve worn a bloody helm…”

Scattered around her were the bodies of the two more attackers, as well as the Guardians of Armadyl she’d been supposed to meet.

“I hope McGrubor doesn’t mind some extra fertilizer,” she said, darkly. 

One of the Guardians groaned, his breath crackling in his throat. Teiran ran over, fumbling for a Guthix rest potion as her mind raced.

_ When did it all get so complicated? _

* * *

_ One hour earlier… _

“Your notes,” she said, slammed the bundle down on the table. Thaerisk picked it up and thumbed through the pages, her lips silently framing the words within. As he did, his expression darkened, his bushy white eyebrows furrowing. 

“This is worse than I thought,” he said, setting the notes down. 

“Worse how?” She said. “Worse than assassins breaking into my godsdamn house and trying to kill my maid and I?”

The druid sat down. “They went after you, too? It seems our secrecy is more compromised than I believed.”

“Damned right, you are,” she said, crossing her arms. “You know, we might as well make things easier for them — how about I post Lucien my bank PIN while we’re at it?”

“Such things are no laughing matter,” the druid said heavily. “And nor is the content of these notes.”

“He’s after some magic artifact thingie. That puts him on the same level as Morgana le Faye.”

Even as she said this, she felt like she was saying it aloud more to reassure herself than anything. Still, she forged on. 

“So long as we get the staff from him, it doesn’t matter if he gets his hands on the other artefact,” she said. “Whatever it is.”

“We would do well to. The object he is after may very well be the most powerful object in all of Gielinor — touched by the gods themselves.”  He sighed. “That is, if this research is correct. Movario may have anticipated us, and planted false information in his base.”

She scowled. “I’m pretty sure it’s the real deal. It wasn’t as if it were lying there on a velvet cushion for me to pick it up.”

“Then RuneScape is in more peril than we thought before,” he said heavily. “The powers of this artefact he seeks are strong enough so that, when used in conjunction with the Staff of Armadyl…” he paused.  “I fear he may and try to make himself a god.”

Teiran clenched her right hand, digging her nails into the palm. “So it’s up to us,” she said, and by us I mean me, to stop him?”

The druid shook his head. “You won’t be alone in your endeavors. The Guardians of Armadyl have agreed to assist us. We must communicate these findings to them immediately.”

“Fine. Where do I find them?”

“Their leader, Idria, has agreed to meet you. Go in one hour, at McGrubor’s wood.”

* * *

_ Well, that went rather pear-shaped. _

Teiran tried to stabilize the dying guardian. The Guthix rest had only stemmed some of the bleeding from the gash in his side. He coughed and sputtered, blood flecking on his lips. 

“Arms,” he choked. 

“Hold still,” she said. “Your arms are fine.”

“Arms.” The guardian coughed again. “Forester.”

He gasped for air, his breathing a choked rasp. Suddenly, he spasmed, and his body when limp, his eyes staring towards the sky. 

She checked for a pulse. Nothing.

_ “Shit,” _ she muttered. The Guardian’s dying message had left little room for interpretation; there was only one place in all of RuneScape whose name had anything to do with lumberjacks and limbs, and it happened to be a pub/tea shop not far from where she was.

She placed the body down, gently as she could, and, after a thought, closed its eyes. Then she stood up. 

She knew that the Guardians were owed at least a proper burial. The thugs she could dump in the shadow dungeon. 

But corpse disposal could wait. She had to see a Armadylian about a Mahjarrat.

* * *

The Guardian’s leader was conspicuous at best; no matter how casually she tried to sit and sip tea in the corner, the hood was dead giveaway. 

“You’re Idria, right?” Teiran said, as she sat across from her. “Oh, quit giving me the surprised look. The only way you could look shadier is if you were smoking a pipe and had some glittery sword of doom strapped to your side. Thaerisk sent me. Your operatives were ambushed at the meeting spot.”

Idria cursed under her breath. “Lucien is closing in on us,” she said. “We need to move.”

“Thaerisk said he’s after an all-powerful wossname. One bigger than the staff.”

“That just confirms our suspicions, then,” she said grimly. “Our own spies are telling us that he’s building an army in the north.”

“An army of what? Zamorakians?”

“Undead. We don’t have much time.” She shook her head. “The fact he’s after another powerful object… it puts us beyond our scope. The Temple Knights have agreed to help us. You’ll be wanting to meet their contact.”

“Great. Who is it?”

“A White Knight by the name of Sir Tiffy Cashien.”

Teiran suddenly looked incredibly uncomfortable. She fiddled with the brim of her hat.

“You don’t mean the old knight who sits on a bench in Falador Park?” she said, carefully. 

“Unless you’re thinking of another one, then yes.”

“Is there any chance we can meet elsewhere?”

“No.”

_ Damn. _ It wasn’t Sir Tiffy that Teiran was worried about — though she still wasn’t entirely sure if she could beat him in a fight or not — but Wyson the gardener, who had not yet forgiven her (or Cyrisus, for that matter) for the massive, post-mole-fight hole in the lawn. 

“Fine,” she said, getting up. “Tell him I might be a bit late.”

“Why is that?”

“Danger lurks around every corner,” she said, cryptically.  _ And sometimes, it can do terrible things with a gardening trowel. _

* * *

Sir Tiffy Cashien hummed happily as he sat and watched the bustle of Falador. Bird sang. Children played in the calm, verdant oasis of the park. A druidess was admiring some of the crumbled statues that ringed the pond. Wyson tended to a patch of violets, oddly planted in a circular patch in the middle of the green, as a little girl played ‘Slay the Dragon’ with a pair of dolls.

The knight’s reverie was interrupted by a stranger, who entered the park with a clunking cacophony not unlike a pile of tin cans. Despite the warm day, the newcomer was covered head-to-toe in armour, none of it matching. 

Precariously, the stranger clunked through the gate, crossed over to the bench, and sat down next to Sir Tiffy.  The park, which had gone silent, returned to its quiet busyness.

The knight looked over to the figure, which was staring directly at him, arms crossed. 

“Goodness me,” Sir Tiffy said. “Has someone popped by to give this old knight a visit?”

The figure said nothing, and continued glaring. 

“Hmmmm,” Tiffy said. “What an  _ interesting _ outfit you’ve got on! Care to tell me about it?”

No reply. The knight continued. 

“Let’s see… you’ve got, ah, yes, a lunar helm — ceremonial, yes, but fetching nonetheless. Combined with a wizard’s top, good choice. Iron platelegs? A little novice-ish, but handy… Fremennik gloves, good, good… and a pair of fancy boots! The rainbow really  _ does _ tie it all together, doesn’t it? Hm!”

Sir Tiffy turned back to the park, whistling a happy tune. “Such an odd place for such a dapperly-dressed stranger to visit!”

The figure huffed, defeatedly. 

“It’s me, Sir Tiffy,” Teiran said, her voice muffled by the helm. “You knew that from the minute I walked in, didn’t you?”

“And what kind of Temple Knight would I be if I didn’t?” He said. “I’ve been expecting you. Though perhaps not wearing half your bank.”

“I was in a rush. I suppose you know why I’m here?”

The old man nodded. “Our mutual friend in the north?”

“You know, saying that makes him sound like Santa Claus.”

“Ha!” the old man chuckled. “Though I’m sure you know he’s not so benevolent.”

Teiran wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she was watching Wyson the gardener, who was beginning to look at her suspiciously.

“I can’t stay long,” she said, hurriedly. “Lucien is on the move. He’s gathering an army of undead. We need to find him.”

Sir Tiffy stopped laughing. “That is rather serious, my dear. But I’m not the one you should be talking to.”

“Who, then?”

“Speak to Akrisae Kolluym. He’s on the ground floor of the castle. Mention me, and he’ll help you.”

“Ok. Thank you.” She stood up to leave, perhaps a little more quickly than polite; however, her clothes were starting to make her overheat, and Wyson was definitely starting to catch on to something fishy. 

“Before you go,” the White Knight said, straightening up in his chair. “How is your man?”

Teiran bit back on arguing about the ‘your man’ bit. If he wasn’t her man, what was he really? In any case, the Lumbridge Sage’s gossip must have reached far.

“Yes?” She said, warily. 

“How is he?”

“He’s well. He’s in Varrock, working on the Dig Site, I believe.”

The old knight nodded. “Good, good.”  And then he added: “He’s a very good adventurer, isn’t he?”

Teiran dropped all pretenses. “What are you getting at, Sir Tiffy?”

“Well, since this little kerfuffle is looking like it’s going to turn into a bit of a fracas, we’ve been thinking of recruiting some heroes to help in the fight.”

He beamed, not seeing the look of horror on Teiran’s face that was concealed by the Lunar helm.

“So how about it?” He continued. “Do you think he would be up for a challenge?”

* * *

“Absolutely not. Under no circumstances.”

Teiran was shaking, despite herself. It was later that afternoon. They were currently in Cyrisus’ room; she was pacing angrily, while he sat on the bed. 

“It’s the fate of RuneScape, Teiran,” he said. “I’m not sure if I can really ignore that.”

“You can!” she shouted, throwing up her hands. “It’s quite easy to do! You just… don’t think about it!”

Cyrisus sighed. “The others are going to need all the help they can get.”

“They’re a group of slayer masters and members of the Warrior’s Guild. They can manage themselves.”

“And I can’t?”

She stopped, and shot a furious glance at him. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I’m not trying to.”

She sighed. “Why can’t you just stay home? You said you’d stay out of this.”

“I know.” He avoided her gaze. “But Idria said it herself: Lucien is raising an army, worse than the one that attacked Varrock. Someone has to face him.”

“Yes. Me.” She jabbed a finger at her chest. “I got in and out of the base just fine earlier today. I even brought that Temple Knight back! This will be pretty much the same. I’ll impersonate Surok, teleport in, get the staff, and teleport out again. Boom. Crisis averted.”

“What if it goes wrong?” He asked, his hands clenched. “You’re going to need backup.”

“It won’t go wrong.”

“It could.”

“So what?” 

“Didn’t you say earlier that you were in over your head?”

Teiran tried to come up with an argument, but failed. “I was…” She paused. “A bit shaken, ok? But I’m going to be going in there better-prepared. No ambushes.”

“And if Lucien finds you?”

Her expression darkened. “I’ll deal with him.”

“He’s a Mahjarrat, Teiran!”

“He’s a glorified skeleton with a shiny toy.”

“A toy that’s on the same level as a Godsword!” He sighed, and looked up at her. “You’re not immortal.”

“You aren’t, either,” she snapped. 

“You act like you are.”

A half-formed retort died in her throat. He was shaking, so much that she could hear the bed creak. He continued. 

“You’re just, absolutely, utterly  _ reckless,” _ he said. “You’re good at strategizing, sure, but once you get into a fight, you’d rather get half-beaten to death than running the other way. And you’re good at it! Better than I am, in a lot of ways. But this is a battle I don’t think you can win.” He took a deep breath. " I can’t lose you,” he said. “If something happened to you, and I wasn’t there to help… I don’t think I could live with myself.”

Teiran said nothing. Instead, she walked up to him, and rested a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and she could see his eyes were tinged with red.

“How do you think I feel?” She asked, quietly. 

They didn’t speak. Teiran’s chest burned, and she had to force herself to unclench her teeth. 

_ What can I say to you to not make you go? _ She thought.  _ Stay here. Stay safe. Wait this out. Let the other warriors handle it. I  _ am _ in over my head. But that doesn’t mean I should pull you into this too.  _

_ Why do I have such a terrible feeling about tomorrow? _

It was Cyrisus broke the silence.

“I think,” he said, carefully, “we should take a break and calm down. We’re both high-strung at the moment, and it’s not going to do us any good arguing when we’re like this.”

Teiran forced herself to exhale. “That’s probably a good idea,” she said, tersely. “I still need to go and talk to Hazelmere, anyways.”

“Alright.” He stood up, taking the hand that rested on his shoulder. “Be careful. Please.”

Silently, she nodded, and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “I love you,” she said, softly.

“I love you too,” he said, and his voice laced with sorrow. 


	19. Long Ago

Teiran teleported east of Yanille, the damp of the jungle island hitting her like a wet blanket. A couple of spiders angrily waved their legs at her, and she shooed them away with her Lunar Staff.

She climbed up the hill to the little shack at the top. It was just turning to dusk, and she was only just able to locate the door in the dim light. She rapped on it with knuckles.

“Hello! Hazelmere! Are you in there?”

She felt the unpleasant prickle of magic around her ears, followed by the taste of copper as an invading force entered her mind.

“Who’s there?” It said. “Are you here with my toad crunchies?”

“It’s Teiran, Hazelmere. Sorry, I’m not delivering today.”

She heard a small voice grumble inside. The floorboards creaked, and a very grumpy gnome opened the door.

‘Well?” He said. He didn’t move his mouth; Teiran’s lack of ancient gnomish fluency meant that he generally preferred to project his words directly into her mind. “Are you going to stand here and provide shade for the jungle spiders, or are you going to come in?”

Teiran ducked under the low doorframe, stooping to avoid hitting the ceiling. The gnome headed up the ladder to the roof, and she followed him up.

He was sitting in a small wicker chair when she got to the top, faintly illuminated by a small lamp on his desk. A few moths had gathered around the light, casting flickering shadows as they flew around it.

“You look upset,” the gnome said. “Did you run into an unusually high branch on the way here?”

“No,” she said, sitting down on the ground. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Ha!” The gnome smirked. “I can hear your thoughts loud and clear as a foghorn, human. You’ve been arguing with your lover.”

Teiran reddened. “It’s none of your business! And stay out of my thoughts!”

“How about you learn to speak Old Gnome?”

“Never mind.” She tried to swat a wayward moth that had fluttered too close to her face, and ended up smacking herself in the cheek. To her annoyance, Hazelmere snickered.

“Your argument,” he said. “It concerns the upcoming skirmish with Lucien, yes?”

She crossed her arms. “It’s not going to be a skirmish, if I can help it. And yes.”

“And you do not want him to go?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He…” she paused. “He could die! I… I feel it. I know it. But he won’t listen to me.”

The gnome said nothing at first, simply rocking back and forth in the chair as the moths fluttered in the golden light of the lamp. 

“Human!” He squeaked, all of a sudden. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“N-no,” Teiran stammered, taken aback. “You’re a powerful gnome wizard. Why would I think that you're stupid?”

“Harrrumph! You recall how I saved you from Asporanda, then?”

“How could I not?” 

And how couldn’t she? The choking gas and the screech of the warped terrorbirds weren't something she could ever forget. To this day she refused to go into any dungeon without a clear exit, and she still avoided the Poison Wastes. 

“If you do, then,” the gnome continued, “then perhaps you can recall what I said when I came to rescue your sorry behind?”

“...Argento’s last gift. You used it to save me.”

“Hmph. Perhaps you  _ do _ have an attention span greater than a goldfish, then, as I previously thought you did,” he grumbled. “I rushed into that dangerous basement where I knew death could wait for me. I also knew it waited there for you! And so I came anyways.”  He paused, thoughtfully. “Would you call that stupid, human?”

“...No.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“Reckless? Noble, maybe.”

“And what a fine line there is between the two! Tell me — would it have been noble if I, knowing the danger, stayed behind and let you figure out how not to choke to death on poison gas all on your own?”

She looked to the floor. “No.”

“Would it have been noble if I had gone to rescue you, knowing that there was no danger at all, or as much as there would be from me sitting on this very roof-top right now?”

“Probably not.”

“Hmph. And if, do you suppose, the night before Guthix himself crashed in through my window and told me I was to die the next day saving you, I would have chosen then to stay in my bed and not leave the house at all?”

She didn’t reply. The waves lapped against the tiny island, while the nearby spiders chittered, and the moths threw themselves against the lamp in a desperate frenzy. 

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because you wouldn’t be able to,” she said. “To sit by, and me die from your inaction…” She trailed off. 

The gnome rocked in his chair. “Human,” he said. “Do you believe in fate?”

“No.” She said this a little more viciously than she meant to. “I don’t like the idea of some big shadowy person in the sky pulling all the strings, messing around with my life, and me having no control over it.”

“Hm. You may not believe in fate, but fate believes in you.”

The candle flame flickered, despite the still air. The gnome continued. 

“Fate may be controlled in degrees, human. Tomorrow may be set in stone. But the far future may be changed. If I laid a plank from here to the Grand Tree, and pivoted it, say, half a thumb  _ here, _ why, it couldn’t be much now, to you and me. But the other end of it,” he cackled, “would smack into the side of Camelot!. Do you understand, human?”

“No.”

“Harumph!” he huffed. “I wouldn’t expect you to. So, now that you’ve wasted my time and denied me my toad crunchies, would you tell me why you’re here?”

“Oh,” Teiran said, shaking herself from her thoughts. “About the thing with Lucien..”

“Ah, yes,” Hazelmere said, his voice suddenly grim. “You have come to ask me to join the fight.”

Silently, she nodded. 

“Very well,” he said, hopping off the chair. He clambered onto the small hammock next to it and lay down, eyes closed and his hands clasped over his chest. 

“It will be dangerous and risky,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I trust the other seven will be there as well.”

“It’s si—” she paused. “Yes. They will.”

The gnome didn’t reply. Instead, outside of her head, she began to hear him snore. 

Teiran sighed, and got up off the floor. She blew out the lamp, and the moths scattered. 

The island was barely illuminated by the tiny slice of moon above. She cautiously made her way down the ladder, her faint curses drowned out by Hazelmere’s snoring and the chitter of the spiders. Then, she stumbled in the dark towards the fairy ring, and, upon reaching it, teleported to a particular ledge in Rellekka. 

There, she sat on a freezing rock and stared out to sea for a long time.  When she was through, she teleported again, leaving the cliffside empty and silent — save for the roar of the ocean and the howl of the wind. 

* * *

Elsewhere, on Lunar Island, a silent figure crept over the salt-encrusted rocks, slipping past silent Livid Farm and the scattered, sleeping suqahs.  It disappeared into the mines below, where it passed by a glittering column of rune essence. It paused, when it reached a particular crevice in the wall, and silently contemplated it before it moved on.

When it reached the end of the caves at a particular batch of rocks, it stopped. Then it took out a pickaxe, hefted it over its head, and swung.

* * *

The Oneiromancer drifted sleepily through the streets of the Moon Clan settlement. She wasn’t sure what had woken her — the suqahs were quiet, the Lunar Altar was undisturbed, and the pirates had all gone elsewhere — but some worldly sense of unease had roused her. 

When she saw the village forge aglow, she went to investigate. The mage peered through the door, feeling the heat radiating from the smelter.

A dark figure was hunched over the glowing fire, pouring something into a mould. Over on the workbench, a cut diamond glittered, next to a small pile of runes. 

The Oneiromancer rubbed her eyes, and noticed the figure’s hat. 

“Teiran?” She said, bewildered. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

Teiran turned, her face aglow with the light of the forge, and her green eyes reflecting the flickering fire. She tipped the mould onto the anvil and, using a pair of tongs, picked up the small, round object that had fallen out. 

“Shifting fate,” she said. “One thumb at a time.”

* * *

He was waiting when she returned. It was quite late by then; he was practically half-asleep sitting on the couch.

As she entered, however, he jumped to his feet. “Teiran —”

He never finished. She walked up to him and put a hand on his mouth. 

“Before you say anything…” Ahe paused. “I can’t decide this for you, can I? It wouldn’t be fair.”

She took her hand away. “Whatever you choose to do… do what you think is right.”

He didn’t reply for a moment. 

“Are you sure?” He asked. His voice was low and quiet.

“I am.”

He took a deep breath. “I need to make sure you’re safe.”

“I know.” 

“And if anything were to happen to you…”

“I know.”

She found herself hugging him tightly, pulling herself closer and pressing her forehead to his, her eyes closed.

“Please,” she whispered. “Whatever happens… promise me that you’ll stay safe.”

“I can’t.” He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “I wish I could.”

“I knew you’d say that.” 

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a ring, still faintly warm from the forge, and pressed it into his hand. His eyes widened. 

“Teiran—”

“It’s a Ring of Life,” she said. “If you get hurt too badly, it’ll teleport you to Ardougne.”

He squeezed it in the palm of his hand. “But what about you?”

“I have one. Don’t worry.”

“No,” he said. “If I’m teleported out, but something happens to you…”

“Please.” She took the hand that held the ring and squeezed it. “I won’t argue for you to not go. But please, please do this for me.”

He nodded. “Ok.”

“And whatever happens…” she trailed off, her eyes stinging. 

“Hey.” He cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing his jawline.  “It’s going to be ok. I'm sure of it.”

He kissed her, his heart a drum, and hers, too; and he held her, and she held him, and it was dark and quiet and the world was silent for one blessed moment; she was pressed against him, smelling him, feeling him, and she wished that tomorrow would never come.

And, even though she resented it as she did so, she prayed, silently:  _ Please, gods, let this all work out.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hazelmere never did get his toad crunchies.


	20. Still Night

The morning came, despite itself. She watched Cyrisus as he put on his armor, and desperately wished he wasn’t. 

“It suits you,” Teiran said, dully. The Temple Knights had supplied it; though she personally didn’t see how they could manage to make anything stronger than mithril. “But I’m not sure about the helm.”

He picked it up. “I mean, it’s perfectly workable,” he said. “Except for the little tassel at the top. It looks rather…”

“Stupid?”

“I was going to say _nonfunctionally decorative_ , but I suppose that’s a more succinct way of putting it."

“Hmm. You’re lucky. You get to wear armour. I have to wear…” She gestured to the heavily-adorned set of robes she was wearing — “ _these,_ which are practically entirely nonfunctionally decorative.” She made a face, and scratched her right arm. “And they itch. Do the Dagon’hai ever do laundry?”

“Probably not,” he said, strapping his Abyssal whip to his side. “I think you look fine in them.”

“Oh, you’d say that about anything I wore.”

“Perhaps. How do I look, by the way?”

“Good.” She stepped closer to him and rapped his platebody with her knuckles. “A little more like a tin-can than usual, though I’d rather that than not.” She scrutinized his head cover. “I’d lose the helmet, though. Wear your dragon one. It’s probably stronger, in any case.”

He took the helmet off and tossed it to the side. “I was never that concerned about matching, anyways.”

She snorted. “I don’t think I’ve seen you wear a complete set of armour in your entire life.”

“I haven’t,” he said. “At least, up until now.” He picked up his usual dragon helm and tucked it under his arm. 

“Are you ready?”

She hesitated. “You’ve got everything, right?”

“I do.” She saw him touch the ring on his left hand, perhaps absent-mindedly. “And you?”

“Yes.” She checked her pocket, like she had half a dozen times already, for the emergency teleport scroll, which, to her relief, was still there.

“Alright.” He pulled her into a hug, all of a sudden, squeezing her tightly against him. “You’re going to work this out. I know you are.”

She tried to smile, despite the ache in her chest that had suddenly formed. “Of course I am. You’re not even going to need to teleport over.”

“Mmm.” He kissed her, softly, his gloved hand cupping the back of her head. She held onto his upper arms, despite the armor that separated them. 

“I love you,” he said. Somehow, hearing it at that moment was far more terrifying than it had been on Dragontooth Island.

“I love you too,” she managed to say. 

There was a knock at the door. Marianne had materialized.

“You’ll be getting back late tonight, right?” she said, her voice a little quieter than usual. Teiran tried to smile reassuringly. 

“Of course. Both of us.”

“Right, miss. I’ll be waiting.”

“Asmodeus is in charge, ok? If this works out, we can both go back to Rimmington.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, miss,” Marianne said, bowing. “Good luck to you. And Mr. Cyrisus.”

“We’ll be back tonight,” Teiran said. “For sure.” She was certain if she said this to him, or Marianne, or herself.

“We will,” Cyrisus said. “I know we will.”

* * *

Teiran clenched and unclenched her hand for what seemed like the thousandth time, as she watched the assorted slayer masters and warriors chat among eachother. Sloane was arguing with Turael about something. Ghommal was lifting a table with one arm, much to the amazement of Duradel, who seemed to be losing a bet with Harrallak. Mazchna was chatting with Cyrisus, who was giving him enthusiastic updates on the growth of Roland.

She watched them for awhile, trying to shake off her sense of unease. The robes weren’t just itchy — they were too _light._ The absence of her usual dragon armour made her feel utterly exposed. 

Akrisae waved a hand in front of her face. “Are you paying attention?” he said. “I was going over the plan with you again.”

“I know the plan,” she said, shooting him a dirty look. “Teleswitch in. Pretend to be Surok. Find Lucien’s base of operations. Get back the Staff if I can. Steal his socks if I can’t.”

The Temple Knight reddened. “I would hope you’re taking this seriously!” he hissed. Teiran glared at him. 

“Believe me,” she muttered. “I am.”

She felt something jab at her side. She looked down to see Hazelmere prodding her with his staff.

“So the day has come,” he said, his voice echoing in her mind. “Do you feel ready, human?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“Hmmmph,” the gnome grumbled. “I suppose you’d never be.”

Before she could reply, he wandered off to the crowd of heroes. 

Teiran sighed. He was right. She never would be.

_I guess it’s now or never._

She turned to Akrisae. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Very well. Hop over into the cell, and I’ll prepare the switch.” He opened the door with a creak. “Hazelmere and the others will be watching from here. They’ll teleport in if there’s trouble.”

She turned to enter the jail cell when she felt a hand on her arm.

“You’re not going to say goodbye?” Cyrisus asked. 

“I’m coming back, you know,” she said, turning to face him. 

“You are. I just wanted to wish you good luck.” 

She smiled, wearily. “I don’t need luck.”

Then she kissed him. They parted far too soon, but any longer, and she might not let him go.

“Come back safe,” he said. “Come back soon.”

She nodded.

“I will.”

* * *

The cold hit her like a hammer as she landed on a patch of ice. The robes did little to protect her from the chill, and she shivered.

 _So this is Lucien’s base camp,_ Teiran thought, looking around. _Must be somewhere in the north._

Elite black knights wandered about, unpacking crates and looking generally menacing. Just as they had back in Surok’s base, they ignored her, and, despite their itchiness and thinness, Teiran was somewhat glad for the Dagon’hai garb. She took a deep breath. _Get in. Find Lucien. Find the staff if you can. Get out._

She wondered how close Cyrisus and the others were. _Miles off, hopefully._

“Hail, Surok!”

Teiran barely suppressed a jump as an elite black knight greeted her. “Hail,” she said. “To you. And Zamorak. And all that,” she added hastily. 

The knight nodded. “Lucien is recruiting, my Lord!” He said. “You can observe from the top of the chapel!” He pointed to a dark structure, just visible over the ice wall surrounding the camp. 

“Recruiting?” She echoed. “Here? What, is he giving a motivational speech to a bunch of ice fiends?”

The knight barked with laughter. “You’re usually humorous today, m’lord! Perhaps you’re filled with joy of our imminent triumph?”

“Yes,” Teiran said, darkly. “Oh, so joyful.”

She left the knight to his laughter, heading over to the ice wall and climbing. _It might be suspicious,_ she thought, _but the sooner I get there, the better._

She reached the top, teetering a little before she leapt to the other side. Evidently Surok was into gymnastics, because the black knights at the top otherwise said nothing. 

_Ok. I’m here,_ she thought, walking as casually as she could along the top of the roof. _Where is here, anyways? Looks like Wilderness…_

She looked down at the ground, far below the temple. 

And she stared. 

A figure stood at ground-level. He held a winged staff in his hands — she recognized it as the one she pilfered from the temple of Armadyl. His back was turned, and he seemed to be whispering something to the ground below. 

The staff glowed with unearthly power. The ground beneath him shook, and cracked, the scorched soil spider webbing as skeletal fingers broke through the dirt. They clawed their way up, attached to the animated bones of over a dozen armored skeletons. 

The undead emerged from the ground, shaking the dirt off their bones, and waving their rusted weapons in the air.

Teiran’s blood ran cold. ‘Recruiting…’ _Idria was right. He’s raising an undead army._

_And he did this batch in one bloody go._

The figure turned. Far from the hooded, hunched-over figure she’d fought in Edgeville, this one towered. Even though she was up higher than him, his height was impressive. His expression, however, was even more terrifying. 

She’d seen Mahjarrat before. Jhallan wasn’t exactly a looker, but his cowardice had turned his skull-like face into something that seemed harmless. 

Not Lucien. His eyes glowed with malevolence, and his mouth was fixed into a triumphant sneer. The glow of the staff next to him made his face even more skul-like; and, as she watched him turn to behold his undead army, it seemed like a mask of death. 

Teiran froze. _This is bad,_ she thought. _Very bad._

Then, it got worse. Lucien looked up, and stared straight at her.

“Hmmmm,” the Mahjarrat muttered. “You’re not Surok. I don’t think I invited you here.”

He raised his staff, which began to glow. Teiran dived out of the way just in time; the spell instead hit two knights who were standing next to her. Their armour dulled and burned; and, before her eyes, they collapsed into ash. 

_Shit,_ she thought, ducking under the temple roof’s walls. _Shit, shit, shit. Get out. Now._

She scrambled for the scroll in her pocket, wrenching it out and unfurling it as fast as her trembling fingers would let her. _C’mon, c’mon, get me back to Falador…_

The scroll started to hum, and then fizzled. 

_What?!_ She flapped the parchment around in desperation. _Why isn’t this working?_

_Wait._

_Far north. Scorched earth._

_Wilderness._

Her heart sank. 

_Fuck._

“Trying to teleport, are we?” A mocking voice called from below. 

Teiran felt her body wrench, as she disappeared from her hiding spot and reappeared in front of Lucien. This time, he _truly_ towered; his head was a good foot above her, and his eyes had the same look in them as a child that had found a particularly interesting insect to torture. 

Teiran tried to grab her whip, but was stopped by a bolt of energy from Lucien’s hand. Her muscles locked, and she felt herself be paralyzed by a stun spell. 

“Hmmm,” Lucien said, peering down at her as she struggled fruitlessly. “I should do away with you right now, but I _am_ intrigued. Let’s see who this Surok impersonator really is!”

He tipped the base of the staff up, flicking off the Dagon’Hai hat. Despite the fact her jaw was locked by the spell, Teiran still growled a curse through clenched teeth. 

“I remember you!” Lucien sneered. “You’re the funny little human I hired, and then went and turned on me for the staff!” He leaned closer. “How pathetic.”

He swung the staff toward her, and it began to glow brighter. “I never thought I’d get to kill you,” he continued. “But now I do. Any last words?”

Teiran shot him a look of hatred, as she twisted and struggled in her magical bonds. _Make it slow and painful,_ she thought, desperately, _and get the damn ring to activate…_

The Mahjarrat looked at her bemusedly. “No retorts? Such as shame. Enjoy your demise, filth.”

The staff glowed even brighter, forcing Teiran to shut her eyes against its light. 

_Cyrisus,_ she thought, as she felt the energy begin to singe her robe. _I’m sorry…_

“Human!” She heard a voice squeak in her head. “Heads up!’

The air crackled with the familiar static of teleportation. Teiran opened her eyes. 

The warriors stood behind him, weapons raised. Hazelmere was glaring angrily at the front, his hands bright with unfamiliar magic. Sloane hefted his axe; Turael held his halberd high; Ghommal, Harrallak and Mazchna had their swords ready, and Duradel was bracing himself with his rune claws.

And, of course, there was Cyrisus, helm gleaming red in the light of the staff, and whip ready. And he looked furious.

“Oh?” Lucien said. He turned to the warriors, his staff still aglow. However, as he turned away, Teiran felt the bonds of the spell loosen.

Harrallak raised his rapier. “Mazchna and I will draw the enemy!” He shouted. “Hazelmere and the rest, take Lucien!”

As he said this, Teiran, with all the strength she could muster, broke free.

Everything happened at once. 

Sloane and Duradel charged forward with a roar as Teiran crashed to the ground. She didn’t see what happened next, but she heard a blast resound through the burned plain, followed by a flash of light and a cry. 

“Sloane!” She yelled. “Duradel!” She scrambled to her feet. 

The heroes had disappeared. Instead, two piles of ash lay at Lucien’s feet, the Mahjarrat grinning cruelly. 

She saw red, and her hand burned. “No!”

Teiran charged, whip out, ready to strike. Lucien, however, barely spared her a glance. 

“You annoy me,” he said, and he extended a hand. A blast hit in her stomach, knocking the breath out of her as she collided with the temple wall. She felt a crunch in her right shoulder and in her chest, followed by the white-hot pain that accompanied broken bones.

Hazelmere fired a round of crystals at the Mahjarrat, which bounced off of him as easily as water. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” Lucien said, boredly. He raised his staff again. 

Turael and Cyrisus were next to charge. Teiran struggled to get up, even as her shoulder protested. “Turn back!” She screamed. “He’s too powerful!”

They didn’t hear her, however. Instead, they leapt, swinging their weapons with all their might. 

Their strikes, however, stopped before they landed. Turael’s halberd shattered against an unseen force surrounding the Mahjarrat; Cyrisus’ whip snapped, crumbling in his hands. 

_Fuck. Fuck!_ Teiran forced herself to her feet. Her shoulder and her side were on fire.

“Face me,” she growled, despite the stabbing pain in her side. She clutched her shoulder and struggled to stay up, managing to grab her whip. “Turn around and face me, you bastard!”

Lucien turned the whole way this time. “You’re a plucky little flea, aren’t you?” 

In less than two strides he reached her, and grabbed her by the front of the robes, lifting her easily. She hissed in pain, but still managed to grab at his hand. In his other, the staff glowed, brighter and brighter. 

Ghommal had joined the fray, and swung his massive sword at Lucien with an enraged roar. It took two hits for it to break; Lucien didn’t even acknowledge the blows. 

“The honor guard was a nice touch,” he said, as Teiran struggled against his grasp. “They’ll be remembered as great heroes — slain by none other than the Mahjarrat Lucien!”

Hazelmere was standing afar, looking at something in his hand and saying something. Mazchna and Harrallak were still fighting the undead army in what was a losing battle; the demon was looking weak on his feet, and the guildmaster was definitely limping. 

Ghommal was beating against Lucien with his bare fists, bloody and useless against the mage’s forcefield. Turael was stabbing at him with what was left of his halberd, to even less effect.

Teiran’s eyes met Cyrisus’. He was frozen in place, fists raised, his stance ready. She wasn’t sure if he was ready to fight or flee. 

His eyes were filled with fear. 

And anger.

Her own eyes stung, as she felt the Mahjarrat’s grip on her tighten, and as the staff glowed brighter. 

“Run,” she whispered. She hoped, desperately, if he couldn’t hear her, he could read it from her lips. 

_Run. Please. Go back to Ardougne. Live. Forget about me,_ she thought. _I’ve had a lifetime of adventure. You haven’t. Go on without me and be happy._

Cyrisus was saying something. She could barely see it, through the light of the staff and the tears in her eyes. 

_“I'm sorry.”_

He leapt, launching himself from the ground with a feral scream, and landed on the back of the Mahjarrat, swinging his fists and kicking wildly. Lucien, for the first time, was surprised, and he dropped Teiran again. She landed with a rough roll, and her left ankle joined her other limbs in agony. 

Lucien raised a brow, seemingly amused, unaffected by Cyrisus’ barrage of punches.

“You’re an awfully resourceful bunch,” he said. He picked up Cyrisus by the throat, pulling him away from his body. Cyrisus let out a choked gasp, grabbing at the hand that held him. 

“I’m rather bored with you all now,” the Mahjarrat continued. “So I think it’s time to end this.”

He swung the staff towards the warriors; it had reached its full brightness, blinding Teiran with a glow like the sun. Despite her broken ankle, shoulder, and ribs, she reached out to Cyrisus, her hand shaking. 

“The ring,” she croaked. “You c-c-can get away… leave me…” 

Cyrisus was saying something, but she couldn’t make out what it was. The staff sparked. 

“This was fun,” Lucien said. “Enjoy your deaths.”

The staff flashed. Teiran shielded her eyes from the blinding glow.

“No!” She screamed, still trying to struggle to her feet. Her leg gave out beneath her, and she stumbled. _No, no, no, this can’t be happening, no, NO!_

The glow died. Teiran opened her eyes. 

Turael and Ghommal had disappeared. Where Hazelmere had been, fluttered a small, flat-top hat, slowly drifting to the ground. 

Lucien turned. In one hand he held the staff, the glow rapidly fading from its green orb. 

The other hand was empty. 

“Well,” the Mahjarrat said. “That was a wonderful bit of devastation.” He surveyed the scorched plain, which was bare, save for the remaining skeletal warriors fighting Mazchna, and Harrallak, who had collapsed to the ground. 

“I must be going now,” Lucien continued. “I have things to attend to.”

He tapped the staff on the ground and disappeared, teleporting away. 

Teiran couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. She felt herself sinking to the ground, her injuries taking over. Her vision danced, and her thoughts were filled with pain. 

Mazchna was shouting something. She couldn’t hear him. Instead, she scanned the plain ahead of her, with darkening vision, for the sign of a body or the glint of a helm. 

_He has to have gotten away,_ she thought, muzzily. The wind blew loose dust over the field, like fine black sand. Someone was grabbing her arm and yelling. She smelled sulfur, for some reason, and a great heat on her face. _Maybe it’s Asmodeus,_ she thought. _He’s just waking us up to change the sheets, and I’m going to open my eyes and see Cyrisus next to me and this was all just a dream…_

And with that thought in her head, the pain became too great, and the darkness around her vision closed in, and she closed her eyes and felt nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi readers.
> 
> Thank you for keeping up with this story so far. I'll be taking a break for the next couple of weeks while I finalize the edits on Part 2. In the meantime, watch my profile - I'll be posting oneshots and drabbles now and again in the interval. 
> 
> As always, thank you to DiAnima for her dedicated beta reading. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d97xXtB4UeA


	21. Dark

Teiran woke up. 

Her entire body ached, throbbing like one big, slow, heartbeat. It hurt to breathe; as she shifted her head, her shoulder burned. 

She squinted. The light was almost too bright (a thought which, for some reason, made her stomach turn unpleasantly), but she could make out an unfamiliar ceiling. Was it made of… vines? Yes, it seemed to be. How odd. Who would make their ceiling out of vines?

She tried to turn, various parts of her body protesting as she did so. The bed she was in… it was too small. It smelled of flax. Why was her mouth so dry? What was she wearing? It didn’t feel like one of her shirts, and it was too small to be one of Cyrisus’s....

Cyrisus. 

Panicked, and despite the pain, she reached to her right. Her hand met smooth plaster, and she felt it press against the wall.

She tried to sit up, despite the pain, and let out a moan. Something shuffled to her left, and she heard someone talking. “She’s awake.”

Unable to see the voice’s owner, she tried to speak. “Wh’r,” she gurgled. “Wh’r ‘m I?”

“Taverley, my dear.” The anxious face of Thaerisk appeared above her. “You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

“Wt’r,” Teiran gasped. Her mouth felt like a desert, and her throat burned. 

Thaerisk picked up something from the bedside table and pressed it to her lips. “Drink this.”

She swallowed, wincing at the pain in her side as she did so. The bitter taste told her it was a Guthix rest potion; the icy feeling that ran down her spine and the fading pain in her limbs confirmed it. 

She finished the potion, gasping for air. Slowly, carefully, she managed to sit up. 

She was in Ivy Sophista’s house. The crystal chest shone by the door, and Ivy herself was sitting by one of the tables, holding a box. 

Teiran took a breath. Now that some of the pain has gone, her head felt as though it was filled with a hot fog.

“What happened?” she asked, swallowing the last of the dryness in her mouth. “How did I get here?” 

Thaerisk looked grim. “What do you remember?”

“I….” she sifted through her thoughts, trying to winnow out the memories. “We… we tracked down one of the strangers in Draynor… we dosed him with a potion, but he knocked it away…”

“Can you remember any further?”

She tried. “Hazelmere… something about a plank and Camelot…” She shook her head. “No, we were going to spy on Lucien’s fort. Akrisae teleswitched me in. I was pretending to be Surok. I got there, but Lucien spotted me. I couldn’t escape, so the others…”

Something struck her like an arrow, cold and cruel. 

“The others,” she said, carefully. “Where are they?”

“Mazchna has returned to Morytania,” the druid said. “He was able to get you here through an Abyssal rift, though it nearly killed him. Harrallak has summarily returned to the Warrior’s Guild.”

“No,” Teiran said, dread slowly squeezing her chest. “The others. Ghommal. Sloane. Turael. Hazelmere. Cy—”

She stopped, unable to say it. 

Thaerisk regarded her sadly, his eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “They’re gone. They were killed in battle by Lucien.” 

Teiran shook her head, her heart racing. “No, no. I was there. I didn’t see them die. There weren’t any bodies.”

“Lucien left none behind.”

“I…” She clenched her fist.  _ No. No. This can’t be happening.  _

_ I couldn’t let this happen.  _

_ This is a dream. It’s got to be a dream. Why am I hurting so much?  _

_ He promised me.  _

_ I promised him.  _

_ I… _

“The ring,” she said, frantically. “He’s in Ardougne. When Lucien was grabbing him, he must have done enough damage…”

She twisted, trying to swing her legs off the bed. “Here, I can do a teleport there right now. He’ll be there, I’m sure. He’s probably waiting, I can’t keep him waiting!”

The druid grabbed her good shoulder, keeping her from sitting up further. “You need to stay in bed. The potion can only do so much. Your body is still healing.”

“Fine,” she said. “Fine then. Let me call him, at least. Could you lend me some runes? I’ll need an astral rune, and a cosmic rune, and some air runes...”

Thaerisk, however, was shaking his head. “He’s gone, Teiran. They all are. Only Mazchna and Harrallak survived. And you.”

“No,” she said. “He got away. I  _ know _ he did. I can feel it. How could you know? You weren’t there! He had a ring of life on. I made sure of it!”  She looked at the druid accusingly. “I made it myself! I mined the gold and the diamond and smelted it and enchanted it! And it triggered and he teleported while I couldn’t see, and he’s probably worried sick about me, and you’re, you’re keeping me here! Godsdamn it, _ let me go _ !”

She tried to move again, but this time, a sharp pain in her leg stopped her. She hissed, and fell back on the bed. 

“I’ve just got to heal,” she said, trembling. “I’ll be up and good in no time. And, when I’m done, I can go and see him…”

_ He’s ok. He’s got to be ok. Why wouldn’t he be ok? He beat the Kalphite Queen himself. He’s trained a dragon! He could do anything. He might not have been able to beat Lucien, but he could have gotten away. He’s ok. He’s ok.  _

_ He’s ok.  _

The druid sighed, and nodded to Ivy in the corner. She picked up the box on the table and walked over to the bed. 

“Adventurer,” Thaerisk said, his voice low. “I hoped to show you this later. But it seems I have no choice.”

Ivy placed the box on Teiran’s lap.

“We visited the site of the battle afterwards,” he said. “Save for six piles of ash, this is what we found.”

Teiran picked up the first object. It was a flat, brownish-gray hat, too small for a human’s head. She stared at it for a minute, before carefully putting it to the side.

The second was a dragon helm. It was faintly dusty with something black, and had a slight dent in the right side, like it had fallen from a great height. 

_ It must have slipped off,  _ she thought, gripping the helmet tightly.  _ It must have fallen off when he teleported out, and it got left behind. I’m sure he’ll be happy to get it back. I’ll take it to him. _

As she put the helmet aside, she spotted a glint in the bottom of the box. She reached inside, and her hand closed on something small, curved, and cold. 

_ No.  _

Hands shaking, she took out a diamond ring, its gem glowing with enchantment.

Her breath froze in her lungs.

_ It could belong to anyone,  _ she thought.  _ A stupid bandit one got one-shotted. An old drop from the Chaos Elemental. Maybe I lost mine by mistake. _

However, she could see it was too big for her finger. As she held it, she could feel the slight notch where she’d picked it up with her tongs.

“I’m sorry,” Thaerisk said. “If anything, it was a quick death. And a noble one. They shall be remembered.”

Teiran wasn’t listening. Instead, she curled her hand around the ring and squeezed it, not stopping even when the diamond setting cut into her palm. 

_ He’s gone. _

She stared at her closed fist dumbly.

_ He’s gone. _

_ He’s gone forever.  _

_ I’m never going to see him again.  _

_ He’s gone.  _

_ And it’s my fault.  _

_ He’s gone.  _

And then, almost as if a dam had burst in her chest, she buried her head in her arms, her body racking with sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have returned! And I am now back on a publishing schedule! Check this space on Mondays and Fridays for new chapters. 
> 
> As always, a huge thanks to DiAnima and fennfics for beta-reading this wild ride.


	22. The Fallen Hero

Thaerisk insisted she stay for another few days until she fully recovered. Teiran was more or less confined to the bed, drinking Guthix Rest potions and staring at the ceiling with nothing but her thoughts.  Even as the pain from her injuries subsided, she still ached. Her body and chest felt empty and hollow, like it had been barraged and washed out by the sea. At the same time, she was numb and unfeeling, like nothing in the universe could ever make her laugh or smile or get angry again. 

She slept fitfully, her dreams drifting in and out of a black, empty battlefield, the air thick with cruel laughter and ash. She could never move in these nightmares; her limbs locked and her muscles froze, even as she strained her arms so hard she could hear the bones snap. 

(It always ended with bright light, and all she could do was scream.) 

When she woke up her body would be drenched with sweat, and she’d frantically grab the space next to her, only to feel cold linen and wall. And she would remember, and her heart would break again, fresh and new. 

Worse than the dreams of that day were the ones that weren’t — when there was no Lucien, or Wilderness, or blinding light. Instead, there was the quiet wash of the sea as she sat on some distant shore, or smelled the crisp scent of woodchips and cotton, and she could feel his heartbeat as he held her, and it felt real and true, and everything else had been some distant, terrible nightmare. 

And there was no pain; no horrible, raw empty feeling in her chest. No guilt. No terror. Just him, and the sound of his breathing, and a feeling of peace. From those dreams, she never wanted to wake up. 

But she always did. And the bed would be small, and cold, and empty, and her chest would be hollow again, and the pain and everything else would come crashing in at once in a horrid, clammy wave. 

The dreams with Lucien in them made her want to scream. The other ones, though, made her want to die.

* * *

Thaerisk did his best to comfort her throughout her stay. They’d all died heroically, he said. Crux Equal would make Lucien pay. They’d track him down again, and be better prepared. Their deaths wouldn’t be in vain. 

And to that she would think, viciously,  _ If it weren’t for you and me, they couldn’t have died at all.  _

She barely said anything in those three days; questions Thaerisk posed were met with monosyllabic replies, if anything at all. The most she said was when, one night, after waking up from yet another nightmare, she retrieved the hat and the ring from the box and stared at them, the metal and cloth cold in her hands. 

“What have I done?” she whispered. “Cyrisus… Hazelmere… I sent you to your deaths.”

Taverley only offered her silence in reply, the night encroaching in its darkness and chill. She put the objects down, rubbing her sleepless eyes with one hand. 

_ What could I have said to make you stay behind? _ She thought.  _ I knew this would happen. I didn’t stop them. I should have. I should have known it was the Wilderness. You knew it was in the north, you stupid girl. I should have stayed behind, and told that Temple Knight and everyone to stick this whole mission up their arses. Or I should have run, or hidden better. I should have been stronger. They’re gone. All of them. I knew this would happen. I didn’t stop them… _

And she spent the rest of the night thinking the same thoughts, each time all of them fresh and vicious and new.

* * *

When she was more or less able to sit up, and eventually stand (albeit wobbily), Thaerisk declared her well enough to go home — the mention of which made her shiver.

_ Where is home, even? _ Teiran thought, leaning in the doorframe of Ivy’s house. She was still wearing the loose cotton shirt and pants she’d woken up in; Thaerisk said they’d had to cut off Surok’s robes in order to heal her, which was a cold comfort.

The only items on her, besides her clothes, were the dragon helm and hat tucked under her arm, the ring in her pocket, and a handful of runes Thaerisk had given her. 

_ I can’t go home, _ she thought.  _ Lucien’s spies are still about… and there’s that explosive on the floor… _

She shook her head. Why had she done that? She knew she’d have to go back at some point. Why did it seem so cool and daring and necessary at the time? There was only really one place she could go back to right now. And she needed to fetch Marianne… and her armour…

She sighed. She couldn’t avoid Ardougne forever, as much as she wanted to. But she could head back, fetch her things and her maid, and leave again before she could think or remember. Maybe say goodbye to Roland…

Roland. Who would take care of him? Would he be better out in the wild? Maybe she could find a quiet spot, away from anyone with a sword and financial obligations…

Why was she crying? Why was she shaking like this? Why did she feel like something had reached into her chest and torn it open?

_ Stop it, _ she told herself, wiping her face with her sleeve.  _ You’re being totally nonfunctional. You can deal with this.  _

_ You can do this. _

She teleported right to the house portal, the markets of Ardougne busting around her. She inhaled.  _ You... _

_ I can do this. _

She stepped through the portal. His house was the same as ever: loomingly impressive. The grass was green and trimmed. The marble fountain was burbling away, even though she felt like it shouldn’t be. 

Teiran tried to take another step.  _ Focus. _ Her eyes burned, her heart pounded, and her vision blurred.  _ Come on… _ She leaned against the portal gatestone, struggling to stay upright.

The door opened. Marianne’s face peered out, first confused, and then confused with worried shock. 

“Miss!” she cried, flinging the door open and running towards her. Teiran thought the maid might crash into her when she stopped short.  


“Miss,” she said, her voice trembling. “Oh, miss, you’re back, but I was so worried… ”

“I’m fine,” Teiran said, readjusting her grip on the stone frame. “My damn leg’s still sore.”

“I’m glad, miss. That you’re alright, I mean,” Marianne said. “I was up all night when you didn’t come back.”

Teiran knew she’d have to say it eventually. That didn’t remove the knot that had formed in her throat. 

“Marianne,” she said. “Cyrisus —”

“I know.” The maid’s voice was quiet and cracked, her lower lip trembling. “Asmodeus told me, the morning you didn’t return. The Temple Knights sent a messenger. I would have gone, but they told us to stay here…” Marianne trailed off, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m… I’m sorry, miss…”

Something within Teiran that somehow hadn’t broken suddenly snapped. Her leg wobbled, and she sunk to the ground, her chest heaving with a sob.

_ “I tried _ , Marianne,” she said, her voice thick, as her fingers gripped the helmet. “I couldn’t protect him. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s my fault, Marianne. It’s my godsdamned fault.”

Marianne knelt beside her and rested a hand on her back. “Please, miss. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was.” The helmet shook in her grasp. “I should have made him stay behind, Marianne. He… he died because of me. All of them did. And all I could do…” She choked back another sob. 

“He died protecting you, miss,” Marianne said, though her voice shook. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

Teiran, however, shook her head. “No. It shouldn’t have ended this way. It didn’t have to end this way.” She closed her eyes, feeling the salt crust on her cheeks. “He’d be alive if it weren’t for me. He’d be standing here. He’d be safe. He would have come home that night and lived long and…” 

Her throat and chest tightened in a vice-like grip, squeezing the breath from her lungs. She let out another sob, unable to form words, resting her head on the helm and hating herself. 

Marianne took her arm. “Let’s get you inside.”

She helped Teiran, who was too overwhelmed to protest, to her feet. Her leg began to ache again, and the maid supported her as they made their way inside.

It was just as they left it. Same couch. Same table. Same book he’d been reading, now on the floor, with a folded flax note stuck in it.

Teiran closed her eyes again. It was too much. It was too peaceful. It should have been… chaotic. Things should be scattered about. Or bare, at the very least. Why wasn’t it falling apart like she was? Instead, it was like nothing ever happened. If she opened up her eyes again, she almost wondered if she would see him standing there, waiting by the door…

Marianne helped her to the couch. 

“Stay here,” the maid said. “I’ll fetch some tea.”

Teiran shook her head. “No, we mustn't linger. I just need my armour.”

_ I can’t stay here. He’s supposed to be here. Why would I want to stay here? Why does it still smell like woodchips? I left my armour in his room, didn’t I? Gods, no, I can’t go in there, I can’t, I should just leave it behind. I can buy some more. _

She clenched her fists. “This isn’t our house, anyways.”

“If I may correct you, madam,” a voice above her growled. 

She looked up. “Oh. Hello, Asmodeus,” she said, weakly. “I’m sorry. I just got back from Taverley… we’ll be out soon, I promise.”

“There would be no need to,” the demon said. “This house belongs to you.”

Teiran froze. “No, it doesn’t,” she said. “It’s his house.”

“Bequeathed to you,” the demon said, taking out a sheaf of papers from his coat. 

With a shaking hand, Teiran took the bundle. The parchment was thick and official-feeling, and she saw seals for the City of East Ardougne and the Bank of RuneScape stamped on them. And they all started with the same sentence. _I, Cyrisus Ulysses Marley..._

“All of his assets are in your name now,” the butler continued, as Teiran scanned the documents, focusing on where he’d filled in the forms with his tiny, neat handwriting. “His house, the contents of his bank, his personal items…”

“I can’t accept this,” she said, putting the papers down. “There must be some sort of mistake.”

“None such, madam. He made his wishes known to me the night before the battle, after you had retired for the evening.”

“So he knew.” She stared at her hands, trying to get them to stop shaking. “He knew this was going to happen.”

Marianne put a hand on Teiran’s shoulder. “Miss — “

Teiran brushed it off, standing up from the couch despite the pain shooting down her leg. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I need to be alone.”

She crossed the parlour, her vision blurring, towards the throne room. She caught a glance of drying laundry on the chair before she tore herself away from it, instead slipping her hand under the carpet over the hidden trapdoor. She considered the lever, briefly, before deciding against it. 

The dungeon was dark and cool as she descended down the ladder, lit only by a couple of torches that flickered and burned in their sconces. She found a pile of hay in the corner and sank down into it, hugging her legs and burying her face in her knees. The sound of her sobs filled the basement room, and she heaved and cried until she felt like she would split in two.

_ Why does this hurt so much? _ She thought, tears streaming down her face and soaking her shirt.  _ How can anything hurt this much? It’s been three days. _

_ Why can’t I stop crying? I’m… I’m just being a useless bundle of emotions. You’re a fighter, Teiran. Fighters don’t do this.  _

_ But he’s gone. And I don’t know what to do without him.  _

She felt something wet and leathery nuzzle her hand. She looked up to see Roland, who was nudging her hand in an expectant way. 

“Hey,” she said, scratching him behind the horns. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any coal for you today.”

The dragon sniffed around her pockets, just in case, before searching in the hay around her. Finding nothing, he sat in front of her and gave her an expectant look. 

“I don’t have anything for you,” she said. “Not even a charcoal biscuit.”

The dragon snorted, a puff of smoke escaping his nostrils, and looked up towards the trapdoor.

Teiran followed its gaze. The dragon stared at the hatch and let out a growl, as if waiting for something. 

“You want your dad,” she said, sadly. “Don’t you?”

The dragon whuffed, as if commanding the trapdoor to open. It didn’t.

She wished it had. 

“Roland,” she said, as gently as she could. “He’s not coming back.”

The dragon whuffed again, and this time a faint glow of flame sparked in its nostrils. 

“No, no, no, not the fire, not the fire!” she said, jumping to her feet. “Down!”

The dragon growled, but seemed to calm down. He curled his legs under him and lay there, still staring at the door. 

Teiran sighed. “I’m sorry. I wish he’d come back, too.” Even saying that felt like a knife twisting in her chest. 

She reached out and pet the dragon, letting her hand slide over his smooth scales, feeling the discoloured spot on his back haunch. He was shedding again; there were little rough dead patches where they peeled away, revealing bright blue skin underneath. He was quite warm. Sitting next to him was like sitting next to a roaring hearth.

She calmed down, by degrees. Just having the dragon near her eased the tight feeling in her chest. 

“Good boy,” she said. The dragon yawned, revealing a sharp set of white teeth, before returning to his vigil. 

She took a shaken breath.  _ What the hell do I do? _

Her whole body felt used and rung out, like a dishrag. Thinking about tomorrow filled her with existential dread. So did thinking about the next day, and the day after that. Any day without him. Any day where she had to wake up and live with what happened. 

“Where are you?” she said. “Where can I find you again? Please. Fuck. Come back.”

_ I need you. I need you to come back. I need you to look after Roland. I need to see you sitting on the couch, reading a book like there’s nothing wrong in the world at all…  _

Some stupid, primordial part in her brain had taken over, and it was telling her:  _ If I beg hard enough, I can fix this. If I think hard enough, I can find a way out.  _

Some smarter, crueler part of her thoughts replied:  _ No, you can’t. _

She didn’t know which one made her feel worse. 

The trapdoor above her rapped. Roland sat up, eyes wide, nostrils glowing again. 

“Madam?” the demon butler growled on the other side. The dragon sighed, and sat down again. 

“I’m here, Asmodeus,” Teiran called, hastily wiping her face. “You can come down.”

The hatch opened, and the demon descended. Roland watched him briefly before turning his gaze back to the trapdoor.

“Do forgive me for interrupting you, madam,” the demon growled. “There is tea upstairs, if you wish to partake in it.”

“No. Thank you.” She turned back to the dragon, who was still watching. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Very well.” The demon turned to go. 

“Asmodeus,” she said. “About Roland…”

“Yes, miss?”

“I’m…” she paused. “I’m not sure if I can take care of him. Cyrisus… he was an expert summoner. I’m not sure if I can become good enough at it by the time Roland’s fully grown.”

“It has been seen to, madam,” the demon said. “The master informed me that the slayer master Kuradal would be willing to board him in her repository. Away from the other slayable monsters, of course.”

“Oh.” She looked to the dragon, who was still watching the hatch intently. “Yes. He did think of that, didn’t he?”

“Indeed. Will you be needing anything, madam?”

She hesitated, and was about to dismiss him, when something occurred to her.

“Do you miss him?” She asked. The question seemed almost childish, but she didn’t care.

“The master? I suppose.” The demon looked thoughtful. “I have had many employers. Some were cruel. Some were not. Some tasked me with rending the flesh from the corpses of their slain enemies. Others were rather particular about the order of the dinner forks. He, however, was always kind to me.”

“Mmmm.” She paused.  


“What did he say to you?” she asked. “The night before. You said… he knew he wasn’t going to come back, didn’t he?”

“In a way.” The butler looked down at where she sat on the floor. His demonic eyes were unreadable, though she thought she could detect a hint of sorrow in his voice. “He expressed to me that the mission he was on was a dangerous one, and that he wished to plan for contingencies. He ‘did not want to be a bother,’ I believe he said.”

“Sounds like him.” She sighed. “I just… I hope he’s ok. Wherever he is. Wherever he went. Wherever that is.”

As she said this, and as she considered the butler, a dreadful thought occurred to her. 

“You, er. You wouldn’t happen to know about that, would you?”

The demon regarded her placidly. “I had a cousin, I believe, who once rowed the ferry in the Grim Underworld that carries the souls of those passed to their afterlife. However, the nature of that said afterlife eludes me.”

“Oh. Ok, then,” she said. She wasn’t sure if she should feel relieved. 

“If I may ask, madam; will you be staying the night?”

“N—” she began, and then stopped herself. She thought of the empty house back in Rimmington. The explosive on the floor. Her bed. Empty. 

The pendant that she’d dug up from her room, forgotten and found…

“I’ll stay here. Please. In a spare bedroom,” she said firmly. 

“Very well.” The demon bowed, and left. 

Roland was still watching the trapdoor, even as his eyes drooped, and his head lowered to the floor.

She gave him one last pet. “You should sleep, little fellow. You can’t wait forever.” 

And then she sighed heavily.  _ And I can’t either. _

* * *

Later that night, as she passed by the table with the mess of paperwork on it, something caught her eye. A small envelope jutted out from the bottom of the pile — the only thing not covered in insignia or legalese.

She tugged it out. It was still sealed; as she flipped it over, she saw it was labeled with her name, written in tiny, neat, achingly familiar script. 

She stared at the little envelope. It wasn’t very thick; however, in her hands, it felt oddly heavy. 

At one point she traced her thumb over the seal, as if preparing to break it. But something made her stop. 

Instead, she carried it to the spare bedroom on the second floor, where Asmodeus had set new linens for her. She opened the bedside table drawer, carefully placed the letter inside, and slid it shut with a dull thud. 


	23. Troubled

The days passed by. Teiran more or less kept to the house; she slept as long as she could for, and when she woke up, she’d stare at the ceiling and wonder if she could go back and sleep some more.  Her injuries healed, slowly, and she was able to more or less move without pain within a week, though she seldom left her room enough to really warrant it as progress. 

For the first time in her life, after over ten years of throwing herself into lava pits and elven traps and monster fights, she felt… fragile, for lack of a better word. Like she was a loose bundle of sticks that would come undone at the slightest bit of jostling.  She remembered sorting through all the deeds and bank details with numb efficiency, like she was watching herself do it through a window from another place.

But there were little things that would come out of nowhere and send her sliding backwards. Certain rooms she avoided entirely — the study. His room, which she kept locked and shut. When she found an old choc-ice wrapper in one of her pockets, she ended up curled on the floor, weeping until Marianne found her and calmed her down. 

When she discovered some miscellaneous shirt of his in a drawer, she held it to her face for what seemed like hours, breathing in the faint, fading scent of earth and woodchips until she couldn’t any more.

She couldn’t bring herself to take the laundry off the spiked throne. Marianne eventually did it, after much gentle persuasion, and with the reasoning that the spines would end up poking holes in the good towels. 

When she went back to the throne room to see the chair cleared, however, it felt like a betrayal. 

_ I should have let it be for at least another day, _ she thought.  _ In case… _

_ In case what? _ Another part of her brain snapped.

She sighed.  _ Nothing.  _

She told herself she was getting better. But she still walked around in a daze. She slept long, sometimes not even leaving bed. She half-read books and ended up staring at the wall instead, her head swimming with partly-formed thoughts. At times, she didn’t even feel sad. Just… empty. Like a hot heavy glaze had washed over everything, leaving her still and unfeeling. 

She barely ate. Did she even deserve to eat? Eating was something you did when you burned energy doing something useful, she told herself. It wasn’t as if food really tasted that good. 

Roland, for awhile, was of help. During those horrible, hurried moments when the world dropped out from under her feet and she wobbled like an unsteady tightwire, she’d go down to the dungeon and and watch the dragon gnaw on a lump of coal or set a wooden training dummy on fire. 

Still, though, she could catch him staring up at the trapdoor at times with a look of endless reptilian patience, seemingly waiting for something. 

* * *

Two weeks slipped by in a melancholy, indistinctive mass. Idria had tried calling her by spell once, but Teiran ignored it. 

On the second Essianday after she'd left Taverley, Marianne slid a bowl of stew in front of her and gave her a long, hard look.

“Don’t tell me you’re not hungry,” the maid said. 

“What if I am?” She looked to the maid blearily. Despite the fact she’d slept until noon, her limbs were heavy with tiredness. 

“Miss, when’s the last time you ate?”

Teiran shrugged. “I had dinner yesterday. It was a baked potato, remember?”

“You had half a baked potato, miss. And that was at lunchtime.”

“Whatever.” She got up. “Look, I think I’m just going to head back to bed. I didn’t get enough —”

“Miss, you’ve been doing nothing but sleeping,” Marianne said. “I don’t think you need any more.”

Teiran sighed. “Ok, I’ll stay out of bed.”

“I think you need to get out of the house, miss,” the maid said reproachfully. “You haven’t been in the proper sun for ages.”

Teiran was about to protest that she was a human, not a plant, and thus lacked the ability and need to photosynthesize. But then she saw the pleading look in Marianne’s eyes. 

“Miss,” she said softly. “Please? Just for one day. I’m worried about you. I know you’re sad, miss, but I think going out and talking to people will make you feel better. More than shutting yourself up inside, in any case. Just until sunset. Please?"

Teiran really doubted whether talking to people — or anything, really — could make her feel better. However, she was too tired to argue.

“Ok,” she said, quietly. “I’ll go out. I should probably get new armour, anyway—”

The maid interrupted her with a hug, squeezing the air from her lungs. “Thank you, miss,” she whispered. 

“It’s just going out,” Teiran said muffledly. Marianne didn’t reply. 

The maid released her a moment later. Teiran took a deep breath. The tiredness in her limbs still persisted, as did her reluctance to step through the house portal. But a promise was a promise.

“I’d better get dressed, then,” she said, stretching her arms. 

“Yes, miss.”

“And shower.”

“That too, miss. Please”

She sighed.  _ Might as well get it over with. _

* * *

She should have taken it slowly. She should have gone for a walk to Catherby, or teleported straight to the Grand Exchange, or even just futzed around the Ardougne market. Maybe even gone to one of her thinking spots. But everywhere she thought of brought back memories of him. Musa Point. That one spot in Rellekka. The zoo. Dragontooth Island. Why had they gone to so many places together?

Going to the Warrior’s Guild, though, was a mistake that bordered on masochism. Why did she do that? Out of guilt? Maybe it was because she was hoping to get shouted at — that they’d throw things at her the minute she went to the door. 

But instead, they were kind. Harrallak, still sporting bandages, had joked about his age and fencing skills. The barbarian who replaced Sloane lamented the loss of his axe in a good-natured way. The other guild members had simply smiled sadly. 

All of them said it wasn’t her fault. Somehow, this hurt more than any insult or shout could have. 

And so it went on. She visited Spria, who stood in the same spot that her father once had, handing out assignments to kill chickens like nothing was wrong in the world. She checked in with Thaerisk, who told her the druids’ searching was still fruitless. 

She avoided Falador and the Seer’s Village. The less she knew, the better. 

By mid-afternoon she was exhausted, even though it had been only a couple of hours.  _ I never should have agreed to this, _ she thought, sitting on the shore by Crystal Lake. She wondered if any of the druids would scold her if she took a nap here. Maybe just close her eyes….

No. She still had one place to go. Two, really. Places that she ought to save for later. For tomorrow. But some rational part of her knew that if she didn’t do it now, it would never get done. 

* * *

“I’m sorry to hear that. It must be hard.”

Teiran couldn’t bring herself to face the Oneiromancer. Instead, she focused her gaze on a distant suqah chasing a seagull, roaring as it ran. 

It was gloomy up in Rellekka, which gave her an odd sort of comfort. The damp mist covering Lunar Island was a welcome change from the aggressively bright sun, and the chill lifted away some of the hot haze that had filled her for the past two weeks. 

It still didn’t remove the knot in her stomach, however, as she forced herself to talk to the Lunar mage. 

“I’m fine,” Teiran said, lying through her teeth. The looks of pity were getting on her nerves. People, it seemed, perceived her an injured, flightless bird that needed to be put out of its misery.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know.” Another lie. 

“Have you told Jack yet?”

Teiran sighed. “No, I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“You’d better go then,” The Oneiromancer said. “They close rather soon, you know.”

Teiran was about to protest that the banks never closed, but she bit back on it. Instead, she said goodbye to the Oneiromancer and made her way back to the settlement, not even caring about the various spells and blows the suqahs flung at her. When she reached the bank building, she started at the door, long and hard, before she could bring herself to push it open. 

Jack immediately gave her a sour look as she entered.

“Welcome to the Bank of RuneScape,” he said, dryly. “How can we help you today?” 

She walked up to the counter and leaned towards him. “Jack. It’s about Cyrisus.”

The former pirate rolled his eyes. “Is it to say that he’s a more respected adventurer than you? That he’s got more renown and better armor?”

“No. He’s dead.”

“What?” Jack’s eyes widened, and he shook his head bewilderingly. “No, no, it can’t be… not him….” he muttered. 

“It’s true, Jack.” She dug her nails into her palm and stared at the well-worn wood of the teller counter, struggling to keep her voice from trembling. “I’m not trying to mess with you. I swear.”

“I…” Jack stammered. He looked like he was about to argue, but then he saw her expression. 

The former pirate's face paled. Jack cursed, and knocked on the booth next to him. “Caebus, I’m going on break.”

“Fine, fine,” a tired voice from the other booth said. “Be back in five, got it?”

“Aye aye.” Jack stepped off of something, and Teiran heard the scrape of wood as he kicked something heavy under the counter. 

She peered around the cubicle. “You stand on a crate?”

“Yes, well, that’s the only way I can be level with all the other bankers,” Jack snapped, “since I haven’t really gotten the hang of the floating thing. Meet me out back.”

When she rounded the building he was leaning against the wall. He had a silvery flask in his hands, and as she approached, he proffered it to her. “Want some?”

She caught a whiff of weapons cleaner. As she leaned in for a closer look, she saw the bottle had ‘ _ Most certainly not rum _ ’ painted on it.

She shook her head. “I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.” The pirate took a hearty swig, grimacing as he did so. “So. He’s gone, eh? Fuck. How’d he die?”

“Fighting.” She sat on a spare crate and looked out into the distance. “A mahjarrat. Lucien. Him, and five others. I watched it happen.”

“Ah.” He took another swig from the bottle. “Damn shame. He was a good man.”

“He was.”

“Met him a while back. Worked on a charter ship a bit, back when me and the Cap’n were still doing work on the other side of the law.”

“What did he do?”

“Cyrisus? He was a cook. Real good at it, too. Fish, cow, pork — chicken, best of all. He could do things with chicken that those fancy chefs over in Varrock could only dream of. Only thing he couldn’t touch was rat meat.”

She managed to smile, a little sadly. “He never told me about that. The cook part, I mean.”

“Man’s got to have his secrets,” Jack said. “Either way, he worked on the ship for about a year before he was off again. I saw him here and there. Took him to this bloody island right before you found him.”

“Hmm.” She looked over to the distant northern hills, where the fog just barely obscured the suqahs wandering around. If she squinted, she saw the entrance to the mines. She wondered if she could ever go down here again.

“I’m sorry,” she said, all of a sudden. Jack gave her a strange look. 

“Why would you be?”

“I…” she trailed off. She felt like she’d said it a hundred times by now; to Asmodeus; to Roland; to the members of the Warrior’s Guild; to each and every Slayer Master she saw. 

Instead she said: “I was wrong, when I called you a rotten navigator.”

“Ha!” He slapped his knee. “Been waiting for you to say that. Mind saying it again? I want to savour it. Feel free to add that you’re a stupid idiot.”

“I am,” she said. “I’m a big, stupid, bloody idiot that doesn’t deserve to live.”

Jack stopped laughing. “Well, that’s a bit far, even for you, isn’t it?”

“No.” 

“Hmph.” He stared at her, long and hard, and didn’t say anything for awhile. And then:

“Feels like shit, doesn’t it?”

It was strange. It was basically the same thing as  _ it must be hard, _ but… it was different. The way he said it. It sounded more real.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice thick. “Yeah, it does. It feels like shit.”

“ ‘S happened to me a few times,” he said. “Losin’ someone. That’s the life of a pirate, I suppose. Never a day you wake up and don’t expect some lad tipped over the crow’s nest in the night after his first tot of rum. Never a raid without expectin’ a lighter crew after it. Then it’s breakin’ out the old sails for shrouds, and the sad shanties, and the fish eat well after it all.”

“It all sounds rather… routine, when you put it like that.”

“It was. Ever happened to you before?”

She thought about it. “I mean, there was my granny, but that was when I was, oh, four or so. I didn’t really understand. There was Harry the classroom hamster when I was 10, but Miss Brace always said he’d gone off to a farm in Draynor. Oh, and poor Cabin Boy Jenkins… but I didn’t know him very well.”

“Ha. Sheltered then. Must be  _ real _ shitty.” He took another swing. The flask was sounding distressingly less full now. “Suppose it’s supposed to happen to everyone at some point.”

She sighed. “I wouldn’t have happened if I’d never met him. Or if I’d just pulled him out of the cave and went my own way, and never saw him again…”

“Hm. Perhaps. Your life could’ve been better. Or worse.”

She sighed again, and looked over to him, hoping her hat would conceal the stinging in her eyes. 

“Does it ever stop, Jack? Feeling… like this?”

“Like shit? Not really.”

“Oh. Well then. Fuck.”

“Eh. You get used to it,” Jack shrugged. “It’s like a brick in your pocket. It’s always there.”

“So you don’t… go back to normal?”

“If there ever is a normal. ‘Specially for nutjobs like you.” He gave a wan smile. “I remember when my old ma kicked it. I was just a cabin boy then. Couldn’t have been more’n ten or so.”

“What happened?”

“Heard about it when we made port at Ardougne. I’d been away for a few months. Last thing I told her, I said I’d get her a pair of new slippers from Al Kharid. Plague got to her, I was told.”

“What did you do?

“When I found out?” He shrugged again. “Went back to port, got back on the ship, and asked the cap’n if any of the cannons needed cleaning.”

“What? Weren’t you sad?”

“I figured I couldn’t be. Wasn’t becoming of men to cry. And, well, I guess it didn’t really… process it. It was like finding out the moon blew up. It didn’t really hit me proper then.”

He paused. “A week later, though, we’re in Menaphos, stoppin’ for stuff, I see some bloke on the street selling shoes, and I just… lost it. Cap’n said I tried to throw myself into the sea. I thought he’d kick me off the crew for that.”

“Did he?”

“No.” Jack idly fiddled with the flask in his hand. “He sat me down in the galley, told me he was very sorry, and then he made me peel potatoes.”

“Oh. That sounds… harsh.”

“It wasn’t. It helped me.” He looked out over the mist-ocean. Off towards the direction of the docks, Teiran could see the faint, ghostly outline of  _ The Lady Zay. _

“After that,” Jack continued, “he made sweep the barracks, then fix the nets, then help Cookie wash all the pots, and by the time I got all the bloody stuff done I felt.. Better. Still sad. Still shitty. But better.”

“So what you’re saying is to stay… busy?”

“More or less. Do something with your hands. Keep half your head occupied so the other half doesn’t get into trouble. And it’ll always feel like shit, mate. But life has to move on. And you can’t let it leave you behind.”

He tried to take another swig from the flask, but realized that it was empty. He grunted unhappily and stashed it in his coat. 

“I’d best be getting back,” he said, pushing himself off the wall from where he’d been leaning. “Cyrisus was a good man. I’m sad to see him gone. But he went out fightin,’ which is what I suppose he would have wanted.”

“Hmm.” Teiran didn’t move from the crate, instead staring at a patch of ground. 

“Feel free to stop by,” Jack said. “Maybe repeat the fact that you’re a big, stupid idiot.”

“Will do.” She rose, finally from the crate, shaking the feeling back into her legs. “And, uh… Jack?”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

“Hmmm.” The navigator's expression was still grouchy, though it had somewhat softened. “Don’t make yourself think I like you now.”

“Jack. Look at my face.”

“What about it?”

“Do I look like I care?”

“No.”

“There’s your answer.”

“Fair enough then.” He turned back towards the bank, and though she couldn’t see his expression, she thought she could detect the smirk in his voice. “Fair enough.”

* * *

The last place Teiran went was a certain isle south of Yanille. She materialized in the fairy ring fighting, off the spiders with her staff in one hand, and hefting a potted sapling in the other. The treehouse’s door was closed, and she didn’t bother to even see if it was locked or not. Even if it had been wide open, she had zero desire to enter it.  Instead, she found a clear-ish spot away from the arachnids that seemed to get enough sun, took out a spade, and began to dig.

It was the first real physical work she’d done in two weeks. Despite her years of adventuring, her hands had already begun to soften, and she suspected she’d find a blister or two on them in the morning.

She didn’t care. Digging the shovel into the soil… was good. So was heaving aside huge rocks she encountered in the ground. Even the ache in her hands was comforting, in a strange, grounded kind of way. 

She lowered the willow sapling into the ground, and filled the hole, patting it down and watering it enough just to dampen the roots. Then she reached into her bag and retrieved a small, weathered, flat-top hat, and hung it from the strongest branch on the young tree.

Then she sat back and stared at it, saying nothing. The sea lapped at the banks of the tiny island, filling the silence. The dying light of the sun, somehow, lent the gleaming branches of the sapling an almost-ethereal glow.

She took a breath.

“I’m not good enough to plant spirit trees, I’m afraid,” she said. “This will have to do.”

A slight breeze picked up, making the hat shudder a little. She wanted to think it was nodding in approval, but all it did was make it look sadder and emptier.

“You were wrong, you know,” she said, a touch bitterly. “I should have kept him behind. You knew, didn’t you? That you were going to die. But you didn’t tell me that. You didn’t tell any of them that.”

She sighed. “But I can’t be angry at you, can I? No more than I can be angry at him, I suppose.”

_ The only person I can really be angry at is Lucien. And me. _

No sounds, save for the ocean and the spiders, replied. However, a small moth, grey and fluttering, rose from the thick jungle grass and landed on the hat. It sat there, unmoving in the breeze.  


Teiran sighed again, and rose. It was getting truly dark now, and she felt the night’s chill began to creep in. 

“Wherever you are, Hazelmere,” she said. “I hope you’re happy.”

And with that she left, her back to the hat and the tree and the moth, and walked towards the setting sun. 

* * *

That night, after managing to down a full bowl of soup at Marianne’s insistence, Teiran took the envelope out of the drawer for the first time since she put it there. 

She didn’t know what was in there, but she had a fairly good idea of what it might contain. 

She stared at it, tracing the letters of her name with her fingertips, and wondered what he had been thinking when he wrote them. Fear? Trepidation? Hope? Resignation? Had he gone downstairs to write it, or had he sat on the edge of the bed while she slept, writing in feeble candlelight so not to wake her? 

She sighed, and put the envelope back in the drawer again.  _ Busy, _ she thought, as she stared up at the ceiling.  _ Don’t think about it. Don’t think about him. Just stay busy. _


	24. Alone

Life continued. Teiran did her best to heed Jack’s advice and stay occupied. She farmed (though she avoided marrentill). She cut trees. She fletched. She did little quests and tasks, slaying miscellaneous monsters and fetching things. She helped Chaeldar try out a new fungicide (which turned out to be about as effective as a bucket of coal-tar on a fire elemental). She smoothed out a quarrel between the Miscellania and Etceteria over how much sun each side got (the answer: equal amounts of not bloody enough). 

She told Larry about the four penguins that she found (and trapped) in a yak pen on Neitiznot. She forged Roland a new set of mithril platelegs to teethe on. She taught Marianne how to break someone’s knee with a meat tenderizer. 

Life moved. Slowly, haltingly. She let herself smile a little more often. She slept less. She did more. And she tried not to think too much. She still felt numb, like she was going through the motions. But at least she was doing something. 

Every night, she would take out the letter and stare and it, long and hard, before putting it away again, still unopened. Overall, it was going pretty well, until a month after she woke up in Taverley. 

When the note from Akrisae came.

Asmodeus had left it on the dining room table when she came home after a day of fishing; it was short and hasty. 

_Meet me in Falador. Urgent business._

She debated setting it on fire and sending back the ashes to make a point, but decided it wouldn’t be worth it to have a barrage of Temple Knights at the door. And, as she noted the desperate scrawl, she had a sense it was something she couldn’t avoid. Or should.

With a sigh, she grabbed her hat and headed out again.

* * *

Akrisae, Idria and Thaerisk were waiting when she entered the upper level of the White Knights’ Castle; the looks they all gave her were carefully neutral.

Thaerisk was the first to greet her. 

“I’m glad you’re better. You’ve no more soreness in your leg or shoulder?”

“No,” she said stiffly. Idria seemed to want to say something, but Teiran made a point of keeping her back to her. Instead, she turned to Akrisae. 

“What do you want?” she snapped. “So nice of you to check up on me, by the way. I broke, what, four bones or so? I don’t suppose you’ve afforded the same level of nicety to Mazchna or Harrallak?”

Akrisae’s face reddened. “We have been _busy,_ ” he seethed, “with the movements concerning the mage under Lucien’s employ, Movario.”

“And what have you found?” She slumped into a chair, not caring for posture or appearance. “That he’s a slimy little weasel who’s in it for the money and the research cred?”

“No. He’s been spotted in Lumbridge again. Based on what you mentioned to Thaerisk before, we think he’s closing in on the artefact Lucien was after.”

“In the caves? What, does he think the Dorgeshuun lamps are particularly impressive? All they need is a bit of goblin wire and magic.”

Akrisae’s face grew scarlet. “When I sent you my note earlier — with a rush delivery fee from Postie Pete, mind you — I hoped you would understand the gravity of this situation.”

“Gravity! Oh, gravity. Don’t I know it.” She glared at him. “So you want me to go and find him and see if his little research mission is drawing up anything useful.”

“Not… quite. You’ve interacted with Movario before. We need intel from you about him, from what you’ve gathered.”

“And then what?”

“We’ll send a Temple Knight agent to impersonate Surok, and see what he knows. We’ll plan our move from there.”

“So you’re sending another person into the meat grinder. Fine idea.”

“This is a _recon_ mission,” Akrisae hissed. “No combat involved, or planned.”

“Oh?” she said. A feeling of hot tightness in her chest was rising. “I suppose you planned for the happy little scuffle the last incident turned into? Makes sense, recruiting all those combat masters to accompany me on that one. Shame their skills were no use against half a god.”

She could see Akrisae struggle to suppress his anger, his jaw and his hands clenched tight. “A miscalculation,” he said carefully, “that we will not make again.”

“So it’s a miscalculation now?” The burning feeling was getting harder to contain. “A five-second slaughter all boils down to you doing the maths wrong?”

Akrisae took a breath. “Teiran, we understand your frustration at what happened at the temple. It is an incident that serves as a reminder as to how powerful Lucien has become.”

Teiran could feel a response rising in her throat, but before she could could say anything, Idria stepped forward. 

“We underestimated him,” she said. “And we’re sorry —”

Teiran slammed her fist on the table, making the other three jump.

“Sorry? Sorry? Is _sorry_ going to bring them back? Hmmm?” She glared at the trio. “Six good men bloody well _died_ up there because you were too busy with your heads up your arses about ‘getting information!’ They didn’t stand a chance. I saw them turn to ash. But you sent them anyways, because you thought it’d be _noble_ , and _brave_ , and they’d come back triumphant and the king of Asgarnia would all give you medals for coming up with such a clever godsdamn _plan_.” 

She spat the last word, clenching her fist. “But by all means. Send someone else down. It’s the caves of Lumbridge, right? Tell them to take a candle, and maybe they’ll be lucky enough to get hit with a pocket of marsh-gas before they even get to Lucien. It’ll end up the same, in any case.”

It was Akrisae’s turn to slam his palm on the table now, his fingers curling into claws on the wood.

“Have you lost your mind?!” he roared. “The very fate of Gielinor is at stake here. Life as we know is in peril of falling at the hands of a mahjarrat with delusions of godhood, and you’re insinuating that we stand by and do _nothing?”_

The last word rang through the room, and the both of them stood, glaring at one another. 

“No,” Teiran said, breaking the silence. “I’m saying that should you send me.”

At this point, Thaerisk stepped in. 

“My dear,” he started. “Your injuries may have healed, but they still linger. And I fear that you aren’t in the mental state for such a mission.”

“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Go on about how I’m such a delicate little lily of the valley that this would be too much for me. Perhaps I should retire from adventuring? Open a cake-shop in Yanille?”

Thaerisk touched her arm. “I’m saying that you should take it easy.”

She pushed his hand away. “I’m an adventurer,” she said. “I don’t take it easy. And I know the most about Movario. I was the one who tracked down his notes, wasn’t I? And I was the one who kidnapped the spy, and grew that damn snapdragon and all the other bullshit you’ve put me through. Send me, if you’re going to send anyone.” _And if I’m not the one to be there to punch that godsdamn skull-faced pile of slime in his stupid, smug face…_

Teiran was angry. No, she was _furious._ She hadn’t felt rage like this in ages. 

She knew she should calm down and be a reasonable, rational person. But being angry felt _good_ . Hell, it just _felt._ For a moment, she was something other than _numb_ for the first time in a month. It was like a knife in her arm — one she wanted to dig in and twist. 

“I’m the best choice you’ve got,” she said. “But if you’d rather not, then by all means, send another person off to be poofed into ash. If that happens, then I’m not offering you my help again.”

Akrisae looked like he was about to argue, but Thaerisk stopped him. 

“She is correct,” the druid said. “Unfortunately. We can send another agent, but Teiran is the one most familiar with Movario’s behaviour, and the one most suited for combat. If we want any chance of getting the artefact before Lucien does, then she must be the one to do it.”

Akrisae looked as though he was about to argue, but instead sat down and let out an angry sigh. 

“Fine, then,” he said. “We’ll go with the adventurer’s plan.” He turned to Teiran and gave her a hard stare. “But we stick with the plan of _strict reconnaissance._ If Lucien’s presence is in any way indicated, _you will abort the mission immediately._ Do you understand?”

She glared back at him. “I’ll do what’s prudent.”

“Hmph. Meet us at the Lumbridge swamps at dawn tomorrow, then. Thaerisk will give you Surok’s robes. Don’t be late.” The temple knight then rose from his chair and left. 

Teiran resisted the urge to make a rude gesture as he exited. _Bloody priest._

She, too, got up to leave, but Thaerisk grabbed her arm. “Teiran,” he said softly. “Are you sure about this? This mission may not involve direct contact with Lucien, but I worry that your proximity to him…”

“I’ll be fine.” She shook off his arm again and got up from the chair. “Movario, I can handle. And I know what I’m in for this time.”

“And you are... truly sure of this?” It was Idria, not Thaerisk, who said this; Teiran looked to the Guardian, and saw that her eyes were full of concern.

Teiran nodded, her mouth set in a straight line. Some of the anger before had drained away now, but a spurt of it remained. She treasured it, relishing in its warmth. 

“Quite.”

* * *

That night, Teiran stared at the autumn-coloured robes on her bed, and felt unsure. 

She wished, wished, _wished_ that Thaerisk had burned them. But no, he’d held onto them. And they’d been repaired. And she’d have to wear them tomorrow and convince Moravio that she was Surok. Again. 

She sighed, and touched the fabric lightly. Even just feeling its itchy exterior brought forth unpleasant memories. The elite black knights. The ice wall. The laughter…

_Snap out of it. This is one mission, and it's under Lumbridge, not there. You are not so much of a ninny that you’re going to be set off by some clothes._

A soft tapping on the door interrupted her. She turned to see Marianne timidly peeking around the frame. 

“Will you be needing anything before you turn in, miss?”

“No, I’m all set.” She hastily folded the robes on the bed and stuffed them back into the box. “You should get to bed, too. It’s rather late.”

“Yes, miss.” Teiran noticed her voice was unsteady a little as she said so. “And, miss… that meeting in Falador today, the one they sent that note about? The one you got very angry about? It’s about the whole thing a month ago, isn’t it?”

“It was.”

“Are… are you going to go and help them tomorrow, miss?”

“I am.”

“I…” the maid’s lower lip wobbled, and without warning, she ran towards Teiran and crashed into her, clinging to her and sobbing. 

“Marianne!” Teiran said, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, miss!” She wept into her shoulder. “It’s just, oh, when you put on those robes the last time, I was so scared you’d never come home again, and after everything you’re… you’re…”

Teiran tried to give her a reassuring pat on the back. “It’s just a spying mission. It’s not going to be nearly as dangerous as the last time.” Marianne, however, cried even louder.

“Oh, miss, I don’t know! You’re all I’ve got, miss!” She sniffed and looked up at Teiran with red-rimmed eyes. “Mr. Cyrisus bein’ gone is dreadful, but what would I do without you? If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be on the streets of Varrock, pickin’ pockets and fightin’ with that mugger near the rune shop! If you go off n’ get killed, why, Asmodeus would probably toss me out! And I’d go back to livin’ in the streets, same as before, ‘cept I’d know how to polish silver better!”

“Nonsense!” Teiran gave her a sad smile. “First of all, Asmodeus wouldn’t kick you out. You’d always have a place to stay, I’d make sure of that. And second of all, I’m not going to get killed.”

Marianne sniffed. “Must you go, miss?”

Teiran nodded. “It’s going to help find the… _thing_ that killed Cyrisus. And apparently who’s trying to take over all of Gielinor, though what else is news.”

The maid nodded, slowly. “You’ll come home tomorrow night, miss?”

“I will.”

“You promise?”

Teiran paused, and she felt an uncomfortable familiarity. 

“I…” she began. 

“I’ll do my best,” she said. _I hope._


	25. The Sound of Guthix

True to his word, Akrisae and the others were waiting at the Lumbridge Swamp Cave entrance at dawn (or, by Teiran’s account: “Too early in the godsdamn a.m.”)

“I’m glad to see you’re prepared,” Akrisae said, icily. “You remember the plans?”

“More or less.” She peered down the dark crevice and sniffed. “Yech. The marsh gas is bad today.”

“Are you listening?”

“Vaguely.” She was distracted by the itchiness of the robes which, despite Asmodeus’ best efforts with the washing, stubbornly persisted. 

“Do you even have an idea of how you’re going about this? Where, exactly, do you think Movario is down there, pray tell?”

She stared straight at him. “Around Dorgesh-Kaan. The bootprints around the entrance look heavy, so he probably has that dimwitted Khazard soldier with him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hired some cave goblin labourers — Zanik mentioned to me that there was a surface-dweller snooping around offering jobs. If he’s very clever, then he’ll be poking around the Tears of Guthix cavern, possibly trying to get around Juna without her noticing.”

Akrisae’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

“I’m not stupid. I’ve dealt with Movario before. And I’ve spent more time in these caves than you probably have.”

“Then… then...“ he stammered. “Why don’t you tell me any of this?”

“You didn’t ask. And so I could annoy you.” She turned to Thaerisk. “What’s my objective here?”

“Find the mage,” Thaerisk said, as Akrisae fumed in the background. “See what he’s looking for. Try to find it before him and, if you can, take it.”

“And if I can’t?” 

“Get as much information as you can. And if it looks like he’s going to summon Lucien…”

“I know.” She kept her eyes off of him, and instead focused on the rotten tree that concealed the entrance.

“Good. I wish you the best of luck, Teiran.”

Idria then took the moment to shove a roll of paper in Teiran’s hand. “It’s a summons scroll,” she said, as Teiran gave it a puzzled look. “If you need backup for any reason, open it, and the Guardians of Armadyl will intervene.”

Teiran felt a twist in her stomach as she looked at the parchment scroll. “I’ll consider it a last resort,” she said, carefully. “And not if the mahjarrat shows up.”

Idria nodded, and gave her a soft smile. “May the Lord of Justice be with you, traveler.”

Teiran thought of coming up with a retort, but the wish had sounded too genuine. “Thank you,” she said, simply.

She turned back to Thaerisk and Akrisae. “Alright. I’ve got the plan down. Find the thingie. Take the thingie. Avoid the mahjarrat.”

“And stay low key!” Akrisae added. 

“Hmph. I’ve never heard of the term.” She took out a bullseye lamp — the only thing not guaranteed to cause an explosion the likes of King Tyras' tent — and lit it. The lantern’s light cast eerie flickers around the gloom of the swamp, as shadows twisted and danced among the rotting trees.

As Teiran descended, Idria called out to her.

“Be careful! You don’t know what’s down there!”

Despite her unease, Teiran managed to flash a grin.

“Whatever is down there, I’ll deal with it!”

* * *

_Some time later…._

Teiran lifted the dolmen onto the plinth with a grunt. 

“Bloody _oof_ godsdamn _argh_ puzzles _cmonmove!”_

With a mighty shove, she managed to get it onto the platform, alongside the other seven she’d gathered. Altogether, they made a rather crooked circle. 

“Ok,” she said, panting slightly. “That’s the last one.

The chamber echoed with her last words, but was otherwise embarrassingly silent. She waited another minute, for good measure. 

“Go on. You can work now.” She gestured towards the stone circle. 

Nothing interesting happened. 

She coughed. “Do I need to say a spell or something? _Da mihi potentia? Cogito ergo sum? Gabindo purchai camerinthum calem aber? Caecilius est in studio?_

The stones failed to do anything even remotely magical. Teiran spun around, back towards the winding tunnels where she’d just come from.

“Hello! Druid spirits! I did the thing! I got your stupid herbs and got the standing rocks and I put them in a circle, right here, all nice! And now you’ve got to do your bit where you reveal the mystical secret of whatever and I’ll be on my way!”

The druid spirits she’d encountered before failed to materialize. She turned back to the stone seal in the wall behind her. It was as big as a house, and carved with a weird hairy-skull thing. Staring at it made her uncomfortable; the skull now seemed to be mocking her incompetence. 

“Oh, what’s the bloody use?” Teiran sank to the floor with a heavy sigh, her back leaning against the plinth. “I’ve probably forgotten some vital part of the whole mechanism that involves poking the third stone on the left near the entrance. Or something.”

_Stupid caves. Stupid altars. If I were hiding some artefact of magic power, I’d put it behind a massive dragon or something. Not behind a bunch of stupid mind-games that any old idiot could solve._

_At least, any old idiot but me, apparently._

She sighed again, and shifted in her position. As she did so, she heard a faint clink from the inside of her bag. 

Puzzled, she reached in and rummaged around. There was her armour, of course, which she practically took everywhere. But she was pretty sure she’d cushioned it between all the emergency food she took along. And the potions, and the spare chisel, and an old amulet of glory….

Her hand closed around a helmet.

Slowly, she pulled it out of her bag. The dragon helm was still slightly dented; she hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. She wasn’t even sure _how_ to fix it. 

It had a note taped to it. As she unfolded it, something dropped from the paper into her lap. 

_Thought you would need this._

She looked down. Cyrisus’s ring of life glinted in the dim light of the cave. 

“Oh, _Marianne,”_ she muttered. “Silly girl. I’ve got one of my own.”

Nevertheless, she picked up the ring and rubbed it between her fingers. It was too big, of course; the only way it would fit was if it were on her thumb. She didn’t want to risk it falling off somewhere, and she didn’t want it rattling around loosely in her bag, either.

An idea struck her. She rummaged in her pack for the amulet of glory. She found it and deftly undid the string, tossing the pendant itself back inside. 

She slipped the cord around the ring, tied it in a loop, and hung it around her neck. 

_It should be safe there._ The metal felt cold against her skin under the robes, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t sure if the enchantment would work if she wore it this way, but, then again, it wasn’t as if she was in a situation where it would trigger in any case.

The ring now secure, she sat back and stared at the helmet in her lap. The scarlet metal shone, her reflection faintly warped by its curvature. She looked at it for a long time. 

“You can’t really help me with this, can you?” she said. “You were always better at puzzles than I was. But that comes with being cleverer than me.”

The helm didn’t respond. 

“I’ve been trying to stay busy. Like Jack said. It’s helped. I can get through the day without crying, which is good. Probably.”

The helm didn’t respond. 

“It’s been… hard, without you around. And lonely. Marianne is always pleasant enough to talk to, but she doesn’t find talk about looting caves and doing quests and slaying dust devils to be very interesting. She’s not much the adventuring type.”

The helm didn’t respond. 

“Are you doing ok? Wherever you are, I mean. I’d hope it’s a nice place. With flowers and such. And things to fight. And books, of course. I don’t think you’d be happy there without books. Or things to fight, I suppose.”

She paused. “I’d hope it’s rather like here, I suppose. You seemed happy here. Maybe it’s like here, but it’s better. Maybe you don’t burn food there. Maybe there’s no jellyfish.”

The helm didn’t respond.

She sighed. “I’m trying. I really am. I don’t want to forget you. Even if I tell myself thinking about you will make it stop hurting. You made me happy. Even if it was for a little while.”

The helm, as it did all the times before, didn’t respond. 

_I’m talking to a piece of headgear,_ she thought. _Maybe some of the marsh gas has leaked down here, and I’m slowly going mad from the lack of oxygen._

Still, she had to admit; it was comforting, in a weird, morbid kind of way. 

“I’m going to be ok, of course,” she said to the helm. “I know I have to move on. That’s what everyone says, at least. But I suppose it’s easier said than done.”

She stared at the reflection in the helm again. Behind her she could see the stupid bloody dolmens, still standing on their plinth and being useless. 

_Rather like me, I suppose._

Something caught her eye. The helm’s surface was reflecting the weird hairy-skull-seal-thing. She hadn’t given it much thought, between the herb gathering and running around, but now she noticed the indentations that rounded it. Or, rather, recesses. Much like something would fit there.

Something dolmen-sized.

She got up and re-evaluated the circle that she’d formed, tracing the angle between them and the door’s recesses with her finger. If that stone was supposed to go _there_...and it was off by a little bit….

She did a bit of rearranging, stopping to check the circle’s correlation to the door periodically. As she moved the last stone into place, she heard a shifting grind in the plinth.

Teiran jumped back, just in time to see the stones shudder and rise: a long arm pushed the plinth from underneath, further and further up in a curve, and pressed the stone circle to the skull seal. The dolmens sank into their respective recesses, and the entire plinth turned, like a key in a door lock. It twisted back again, and the arm and plinth sank back into place.

The skull seal shook. Slowly, it sunk into the ground, revealing a dark passage onward from the chamber.

Teiran looked at the helm, which was sitting on top of her bag. She picked it up. 

“Ok. I suppose that was helpful,” she said to it. The helm said nothing. 

She was about to put it back into her bag when something made her stop. The dark passage loomed, and you never really could tell what lay beyond passages. There could be massive piles of treasure, yes, but that was generally on the more occasional instance. Most of the time it wasn’t nearly so pleasant. Wall beasts, for example. 

She took a breath, and slipped the helmet on her head. 

“You’ve protected me from banging my head two times so far,” she said. “I hope there’s no chance for a third, but we’ll have to see.”

The rest of her armor followed. Even if there was nothing threatening beyond, she had left Movario far behind. And she was really just trying to find an excuse to get the robes off. 

After she donned her dragon plates, she grabbed her bag, squared her shoulders, and, with one hand on her whip and the other snapping a fire spell, walked into the dark. 

The fire spell turned out to be pointless, for as she walked along the passage, several unseen torches flickered to life along the walls.

 _Bloody mage stuff. Gives me the creeps._ She kept up the spell in her hands; the flame staved off the deep chill in the caverns.

She kept walking. Unlike the caves above, it was dead-silent down here; no steady dripping of the swamp water, or skitter of insects, or distant tapping of Dorgeshuun pickaxes. It should have reassured her; usually ‘quiet’ meant no monsters. But here and now, it just made her more nervous. 

_How long does this go on? How deep underground am I, anyway? I must be somewhere under Al Kharid by now…._

As she continued, she thought she could detect the barest hint of a glow up ahead. The further she went, the stronger it became; soon, it became bright enough that she extinguished the fire in her hand. 

She turned the corner. 

The stone room she had entered was a little bigger than the one she’d come from; what drew her eye was the massive, round stone sitting in the middle of it, centered on a slightly raised stone platform. 

It was the size of a kitchen larder. And glowing. Quite brightly, in fact. That generally denoted something being an all-powerful wossname, Teiran reflected. Oddly enough, it looked a bit like a cabbage. 

_Stone of Jas my arse,_ she thought, gobsmacked. _This thing’s a bloody boulder. How in Gielinor am I supposed to get this thing out of here?_

The stone seemed to shimmer with a faint aura, glinting around it like a shield. She realized that she was walking towards it, half-unbidden, even as the glow made her eyes water.

 _I shouldn’t touch this,_ she thought, as she slowly reached for it. _It’s going to turn me to rock, or teleport me somewhere nasty, or burn me to ash…_

As she tried to shake the last thought from her mind, the tips of her fingers brushed the shimmering layer around the stone. 

“Argh!” She pulled her hand away; the palm burned and stung, as though she’d tried to pick up a piece of white-hot metal. As she held it, she thought she could see the shiny outline of a jagged scorch in her right palm. 

“ _Stupid,”_ she hissed, as she rummaged around her bag with her good hand for a Guthix rest. “Goes to show what happens when you touch shiny wossnames…”

**You aren’t supposed to be here.**

Teiran turned. The voice had come from behind her. And to the sides. And everywhere. It hissed in her head, and sounded like several people at once.

In front of her, a figure flickered. It was human-shaped, in a way. It had legs, and arms — two sets of them. Its head was a pillar of ice, its body rock, and its limbs made of flickering flame. Its torso seemed to be held together by a small whirlwind. As it stood in front of her, Teiran could feel a slight breeze waft from it.

**The Stone knows from ahead.**

Teiran wasn’t sure how it spoke. It has no mouth. Yet still, it whispered like leaves in the wind, with a hissing sigh made of a hundred small things.

“Who are you?” Teiran asked. Her hand, still stinging, crept towards the whip.

**I have missed you.**

“What? Do I know you?”

**Not yet, but yet. We share the same fate.**

Teiran stepped back. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall being a flaming, rocky…. thingie being in my life plans.”

**Death escapes you. But I have seen you die. And you will die again.**

“No. No death for me, thank you.” She unhooked her whip. “Not today, not tomorrow. Not any time soon.”

**Indeed.**

The elemental stepped forward.

**Perhaps violence will make you understand.**

Teiran dodged out of the way just as the figure unleashed an earth attack. The chunk of stone bounced off the shield around the Stone of Jas, crumbling to dust.

She righted herself and ran towards the elemental, lashing out a charged attack with her whip that hit it straight on. Though the Abyssal energy crackled over its form, the elemental seemed unperturbed.

“I’m trying to protect the Stone!” Teiran yelled, dancing back as the elemental raised a rocky fist. “It’s not safe here, there’s a mage looking for it nearby who wants it for a mahjarrat!”

**Your reasons are pointless. I protect the Stone. This must transpire.**

The elemental swung, and even as Teiran ducked away from it, the blow grazed the side of the helmet, nearly throwing her off-balance. She managed to stay up, and back away to a safer distance.

“Just let me take the Stone,” she begged. “Please. I’ve been through enough. We can fight Movario together. I need to keep this out of Lucien’s hands.”

**It was all useless anyways. I have seen it. The old gods stir.**

It reached a hand over its head, and a bow, made from the arc of a flame, materialized in its hand.

**It's been such a long time, and your funeral was just such a lovely event. And what was it you used to say to me? I remember it well, since it was like yesterday.**

“You’re mad,” Teiran said. The elemental drew its bow.

**Ah, well. I guess you know better than anyone that the good die young.**

It fired. She dodged and rolled again as an arrow made of fire roared past her, striking one of the stone walls and leaving a patch of glass where it landed.

_Shit. I need to take this thing down, fast._

And so it continued. Teiran would get a hit in here and there, between all the dodging. The elemental continued to barrage her, stopping only now and again to quip at her.

**I am enjoying this.**

It prepared another earth attack. Teiran, panting, managed to glare at it.

“Why would you?”

**I get to die soon, and I shall go home.**

“Oh?” She eyed a weak spot around the elemental’s right leg, left unguarded. “You sound optimistic. Rather morbid thing to aspire to, isn’t it?”

**You would not understand. You didn’t now. But you do later.**

Teiran lashed at the elemental’s leg, interrupting its thoughts as she pulled away a chunk of rock from its form. Despite her exhaustion, it was looking weaker; she couldn’t feel the breeze from it as strongly, and she noticed the fire in its arms was flickering more rapidly.

She lashed again, taking out another chunk of rock. The elemental seemed to regard her sadly.

**The bloom of youth only lasts so long. What can any of us aspire to but a glorious death? And yours was glorious.**

“Stop speaking nonsense!” she yelled, dodging a chunk of ice. “And I can tell you that a glorious death is nothing to aspire to!”

The elemental cocked its head, a block of ice still in its hand.

**The other day someone else was talking about how much they missed you. How you used to light the place up with your laughter, but it's all gone now.**

She stopped, her whip dangling mid-air. “What are you talking about?”

**Far from now, among dead gods. Waiting.**

Her hand burned again, and she squeezed the handle of the whip a little tighter.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, quietly. “And you probably don’t, either, so I advise you stop speaking.”

The elemental said nothing, and hurled the now half-melted ice chunk at her. It hit her on the arm, bruising it slightly, but she didn’t care.

Instead, Teiran cracked the whip again.

It took another ten minutes of hasty dodging, and another two hits, before she saw the elemental truly slow. Its arms were faint flickers now, and its pillared ice-head was dripping. Even the rocks that made up its legs were jagged and crumbling.

It was in the middle of drawing its bow when Teiran hit it a final time; the whip snapped and broke the weapon, which dissipated into the air. It looked at its hands confusedly, and saw the dying flame they had become.

The elemental sighed and turned to her.

**I am tired, Teiran. It’s been so long.**

“I…” she stammered. “How do you know my name?”

**I have seen you. Watched you. Outside time. We met. Once, by the seaside.**

“I… I don’t remember that.”

**It hasn’t happened yet. For you.**

The elemental sighed again.

**Now it is time for rest.**

It looked up, as though praying to some unseen entity.

**And to protect the Stone until such a time as, near to death, whereby you are relieved of all duties and shall henceforth be returned to your home plane with the gratitude and blessings of Guthix.**

It looked back down to Teiran.

**I will see you. Soon. Wait for me. Thank you.**

Before she could reply, it sighed, and collapsed. The fire of its arms flickered away, as the wind in its midsection swirled away; its head collapsed into cold vapour, and its legs crumbled, leaving nothing more than a pile of broken rocks on the ground. 

She stared at it, as the last of the wind made the torchlight dance and hissed down the cavernous halls. And, for some reason, she felt sad. 

“Poor thing,” she said to no one in particular. “I wonder how long you’ve been here?”

The pile said nothing in reply. Teiran still, however, could not shake the inexorable feeling of sorrow. Or that she was being watched. 

She turned. The Stone loomed, and she saw the barrier around it had disappeared. 

_Can I even move this thing?_ She thought, as her gaze remained fixed on the artefact. _I should call Idria and the others…_

But there was a certain magnetism to it. Drawing her closer. 

_Touch it…._

Every nerve in her body was screaming at her not to, reminding her of Basic Dungeon Rule #210* and the still-stinging burn on her hand. 

But, like before, it called her. And before she knew it, she was pressing her palm against the Stone’s mosaic surface.

It felt warm, and beating, almost like a heart. Her hand lit up with a searing pain again, but she barely felt it, even as it traveled up her arm like a liquid flame. 

Images, unbidden, filled her mind…

* * *

_The Fremennik shivered, despite the fur coat wrapped around him. The cave glittered with pale grey, and even rock itself seemed to glow with an ethereal energy; though all the sparkle in the world could not match the incandescence of the Stone that stood before him._

_His eyes, first filled with fear, now shone with wonder. Trembling from the cold — or, perhaps, anticipation — he extended a gloved hand, and pressed it to the mosaic surface…_

_The scene shifted, the cold cave replaced with fire. Leathery wings spread out to the sky, and a roar of rage and pain…._

_A mountain, looming in the background of a great black desert that stretched forever, gleaming under an unseen sun..._

_Space… endless space, billions of stars and planets. They were blotted out by a supernova-sized_ thing _, its octopus arms blocking out the light in its huge and terrible shadow..._

* * *

Teiran pulled her hand away, her head swimming with words she didn’t know or understand.

_Dragonkin… Jas… Dead…_

As she pulled her hand back, she felt her veins surge with energy. Her body felt light; tense and ready, like a bowstring about to snap. 

She looked at her hands. They were trembling slightly, and softly lit with an effusable glow. 

“What… what’s happened to me?” she whispered. Her voice had a buzz to it, like the hiss of many leaves blowing in the wind. “I…”

“The power,” a petulant, reedy voice from behind her said. “What power it has! My greatest discovery to date!”

She turned. Movario stood before the platform the stone rested on, his face stretched into a mad, gleeful grin. A Khazard soldier stood next to him, his dimly looking at the mage and scratching his head in confusion. 

“I dunno, boss,” the soldier said. “It just looks like a big shiny rock to me.”

“Darve, you fool!” Movario barked. “Don’t you know what you’re looking at?”

Teiran squinted at them muzzily, her head still filled with a hot fog. Were they supposed to be here? What was the odd haze about them? The one around Movario was like a black flame, while Darve’s oozed like a half-cooked egg. 

“You,” she said, her voice still buzzing. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have some light creatures you need to bother or something?”

“Ha!” The mage laughed. “Your ruse may have worked once, ‘Dark Squall,’ but it won’t now!” He grinned wider. “I’ve confirmed it with Lucien himself! And I _knew_ Surok wasn’t blonde!”

 _Lucien…._ Even just hearing the name cleared the fog from her head, as she felt anger begin to boil in her chest. 

Her hand closed around her whip. 

“You’re not taking this,” she said, unfurling her weapon. “And nor is Lucien.”

She stepped towards the two. Darve raised his sword, stepping protectively in front of the mage. 

“I’d like to see you try, girlie!” he said, waving around the blade. “Me ’n Movario are more than a match for you!”

In response, she flicked her wrist, just enough so that Abyssal energy coursed down its length. 

“Go ahead,” she said. Fury and some foreign power surged through her, intoxicating in their wake. “I’d like to see you try.”

Mavario grabbed Darve’s arm. “The Stone,” he said. “It had some sort of elemental guardian protecting it. A powerful one, I expect. And one that this… _imposter_ brutishly defeated. That is an indication this fight may be one we cannot win."

It was Teiran’s turn to grin now, her whip sparking with energy. “You’ve got that right, you clever little weasel.”

“Clever indeed,” a voice, cold and mocking, said next to her. “I see you’ve found my prize at last, Movario.”

Teiran felt a chill crawl down her back. A bolt of fear seized her stomach, squeezing her chest and freezing the breath in her lungs. 

She turned. 

Lucien leered down at her, his empty eye sockets glowing in the light of the stone, and the glow of the Staff of Armadyl. Despite the power surging within her, she suddenly felt ineffectual — as helpless as that day in the Wilderness, when her body had been too hurt and broken to even move. 

Terror froze her. For a moment, all she could do was stare. 

But, somewhere, deep within, a flicker of anger persisted. As the mahjarrat sneered down at her, she willed it to grow. 

“ _You,_ ” she growled, her voice low and quiet. She willed her petrified arm to move, slowly raising her weapon. 

She was terrified. And angry, and growing angrier by the minute. She felt that knife in her arm again, tearing her away from the dull numbness. She felt a fire in her heart, burning away the cold. 

“You’re the delusional sack of shit going around turning good men to dust,” she spat. Even cursing felt good, like a firework falling from her lips. “Smiling like a stupid fucking smug snake. Like you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Lucien cocked his head to the side, almost curiously. “Aren’t you the insect I thought I dealt with up at the temple?” He said. “It seems you’ve managed to survive. How persistent.”

She didn’t reply. The rage in her core was boiling over now, thawing her limbs into movement. With a roar she lunged forward, slashing her whip in a savage attack. 

The mahjarrat merely laughed, and teleported a short distance away, reappearing next to Movario. 

“Your anger amuses me,” he said. “But I’ve no time to indulge in your little revenge fantasies. I’ll be taking the Stone now, Movario.”

The mage sputtered. “But — but — my research! It’s not ready!”

“Nonsense,” Lucien said. “Its power calls to me. How am I to follow in Zamorak’s footsteps if I delay this any longer?”

“So it’s godhood you want now?” Teiran faced him, her teeth clenched. What had started as a small flame of anger had bloomed into an inferno. “You’d see all of RuneScape made into the Wilderness, I suppose? Turn anything that stands in your way into dust?”

Lucien grinned. “It seems you understand my goals perfectly.”

“Then I won’t let you!” She lunged toward him again, raising her whip for a quick side strike. Lucien went to dodge, but she feinted, bringing up her left fist to meet his skull as he ducked. 

It connected, first to the force field around him; she felt the skin on her knuckles singe and burn. With a pained cry, she kept going, even as she smelled her flesh begin to char. 

Something beneath her fist cracked, then shattered. Her hand broke through, and she felt her knuckles strike Lucien’s skull. 

She wasn’t sure if it was the power of the stone, or the sheer, overwhelming rage that fueled it, but the blow landed with a sickening crack. Lucien reeled, teleporting away before she could complete the swing. 

Teiran managed to right herself in the air, and she landed on the ground with a heavy thud. As she did, she felt the stone underneath her crumble. 

Lucien reappeared several yards further, one hand clutching the side of his face.

“You’re either very brave,” he said, “or very foolish, to challenge Lucien, master of a thousand curses.”

Teiran got up, feeling the rock dust crunch beneath her legs. “Will you,” she said, brushing off her armour, “shut up? You want to conquer all of Gielinor. You’re trying to become a new god. You killed six good men. And you killed _him.”_

She shook with rage. All of her burned — her chest, her eyes, her hands, her mind. There was, perhaps, some small part of her that was telling her to hold back, to call Idria and back away from this fight — but it was drowned out by an all-consuming inner scream. 

She had felt his skull crack under her fist in that one, glorious moment, and she longed to feel it. Again, and again, and again. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “And I will end you. Here and now. And I will turn your godsdamn body to bone dust and stomp on it and _laugh._ ”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Lucien said. He raised the Staff of Armadyl and spun it in the air, dark energy accumulating around it. Teiran leapt forward with a furious scream, only to be blocked by two pillars of fire. A pair of grotesque, half-skinless demons stumbled forth from the flames, groaning in agony as they shambled toward her. 

She ignored them. For even as the fire burned her face and singed her skin, Teiran felt nothing — only anger, and a monstrous desire to annihilate the mahjarrat standing behind the monsters he had just spawned.

“Coward!” She screamed. Lucien raised the staff again. Behind her, dark energy began to surround the Stone of Jas.

“I’ll let my pets deal with you,” Lucien hissed, still clutching the side of his head. 

“No!” She was about to launch herself through the wall of flame when someone grabbed her arm. 

“Teiran!” Idria yelled. “Don’t chase after him. He’ll kill you!”

The other Guardians of Armadyl began to materialize around her. Teiran’s focus, however, was on Lucien, who was rapidly fading away. 

“Enjoy your impending death,” the mahjarrat said. “Consider this a mercy, compared to what's coming.”

And with that, between the flicker of flames and Teiran’s scream of rage that echoed throughout the cavern, he and the stone disappeared.

* * *

_*Dungeon Rule #210: Do not touch the Shiny Wossname._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shoutout to fennfics for the HTML formatting! Check out his account for more RuneScape flavortext coding.


	26. Rest for the Weary

The aftermath had been… a blur, to be honest. Teiran remembered the anger and frustration, strong enough that she saw red. She remembered slamming her fist into the stone platform, sending spiderweb cracks through the caver floor, and raw power continuing to surge through her veins. Idria had shouted something at her, but she couldn’t recall what it was. 

She did recall seeing the demons, and having her whip in her hand, and her mind being a white-hot cauldron of fury. 

When it was over, she stood over the infernal ashes of the monsters, panting and soaked with sweat, her skin mottled with burns she could barely feel. 

_ He got away, _ she thought, her thoughts forming a coherent sentence for the first time since she touched the stone.  _ He was there, and you saw him and managed to hit him and he  _ _ got away _ _ … _

“I have to find him,” she muttered, staring at the plinth where the stone once stood. “I have to end him… destroy him… for what he did…”

“Teiran.” Idria touched her shoulder lightly. Teiran whipped around, nearly attacking the Guardian before she realized who it was. 

Idria stepped back, and Teiran saw a look of terror flicker across her face.

“Teiran,” she said again. “Please. It’s safe now. Lucien and his ilk are gone. You’ve got burns over half your body.... Look at yourself. Your left hand is bleeding. We need to get you to a healer.”

Teiran looked down, and realized what she said was true. Her hands shook, one of them slick with blood; with a sudden rush, she felt the power burning within her drain away all at once, leaving her emptier than before. 

_ Now _ came the pain. Her left hand was on fire. The places where the tormented demons struck her burned and stung, and her brain swam unpleasantly, her vision fading in and out.

She fell to her knees, squeezing her eyes shut as the room spun. 

“What… happened?” she said. 

Idria knelt beside her. “The stone… it imbued you with its power. Power that humans aren’t meant to wield. If you were near it any longer, I fear you might have died.”

“How did you find me?”

“The scroll. We put a tracking spell on it. When Thaerisk sensed a huge energy spike from above the caves, we came as quickly as we could. The stone’s power… I think it was blocking us. It was only when Lucien was starting to teleport it away when we were able to get through.”

Teiran nodded dumbly. She rummaged around in her bag, pulling out a Saradomin brew and gulping it down.  The pain from her burns subsided slightly, and she willed her hands to stop shaking. 

“He got away,” she said, simply. 

“He did,” Idria said with a sigh. “Though we may thank Armadyl that no casualties occurred this time.”

“He has the stone.”

“We are… aware.”

Teiran looked to Idria. “What now?”

The Guardian looked away. “We wait.”

Teiran wanted to get angry. She wanted to let that flame surge again. But she felt numb and drained and tired and empty; and now that the inferno had died, she could hear the voice in the back of her head far more clearly now. And it said:

_ You fucked up. _

She breathed in, despite the pain in her chest. “We don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

Idria nodded, slowly. “We cannot afford to do anything rash. Lucien knows of our efforts, as well as your involvement in them. He will recognize you — and, I suspect, in a way that transcends appearances. He will not be fooled by disguises any longer. Or by a visit to the Makeover Mage.”

Teiran nodded “That’s all we can do?”

Idria nodded again. “We watch,” she said. “And pray.”

* * *

Idria ended up teleporting her to Ardougne, despite Teiran insisting that she could make the walk. When she arrived home (or, at least, as close to home as she could dare call it), Marianne greeted her with a shriek and a hug, and a thorough scolding over her injuries. 

The maid then half force-fed her a bowl of stew, after which Teiran excused herself to her room, and fell on the bed with an exhausted groan. 

Her body… hurt. Not in the same way it did after a long battle or a hard beating, but in a used, hollow kind of way. She felt like the empty shell of a bomb that exploded, leaving behind nothing but soot and the smell of gunpowder.

The stone… it had changed her. She could feel it. Something remained; a flicker, no bigger than a candle flame, but a flame nonetheless. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see a faint glow around her hands. 

She picked up the dragon helmet, which she’d absent-mindedly taken with her to the room, even after she took it off to eat.

She stared at it. It was a good deal dustier now; the left side bore a new scorchmark, which the hastily rubbed away with her sleeve. 

She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

The helm didn’t reply. 

“I…” she paused, her slightly smudged, warped reflection staring back at her. “I let him get away.”

The helm didn’t reply. 

“Gods, I was so… _angry_ in there. I couldn’t think of anything else. I just….” She trailed off.

The helm didn’t reply. 

“It felt good,” she said. “In a weird way. Better than I’ve felt in ages. Maybe that’s it. What I’ve been missing. Maybe if I kill Lucien, I’ll feel…”

_ Better? Worse. Something, maybe. Feeling something would be nice. Feeling normal again, at the very least, would be good.  _

She stared at the helmet for awhile, before putting it on the bedside table, facing her. She then took the envelope out of the drawer, her eyes scanning over the familiar lettering on the back. 

“When Lucien is dead,” she said, slowly, “I’ll read this. But not before.”

With that, she put the letter away once more, fell back on the bed, and slept like she had just died.

* * *

The next morning Teiran woke up at seven, still aching, but feeling several margins better. She gave Marianne a fright when she made her way down to the kitchen, and immediately set to devouring a bowl of cold curry. 

“You’re going out, miss?” The maid asked bewilderedly. “Shouldn’t you be taking a day off after all that excitement?”

“No.” Teiran stood up and dropped her spoon in the empty bowl with a clatter. “There are some things I need to take care of.”

* * *

The next week was busy. Very, very busy. 

On the first day she scoured the Chaos Tunnels for any sign of Surok, accosting several mages and Dagon’hai along the way. They could tell her nothing of their disappeared leader; and she ended up killing Bork again in frustration, her efforts fruitless.

On the second day she broke into the empty house in Edgeville and ransacked every drawer, closet and conceivable hiding place for  _ something, _ really. All she found were a bunch of half-burned notes that crumbled to dust the moment she touched them; and, under a table, a green-gemmed pendant. As soon as she recognized it, she flung it against the wall, where it slid to the floor with a dull thud. There she let it lay. 

On the third day, she pulled on a pair of ice gloves, headed to the desert, climbed down the Smokey Well and killed Fareed. As she emerged from the dungeon, a masked man was waiting at the top, holding a dragon dagger and a look of harmful intent.

“Bugger off, you,” she growled. The stranger gave her no mind, and slashed the dagger towards her.

Ten minutes, his body lay on the desert ground, the blood from several gashes soaking into the sand below him. Soon afterward, a nearby ugthanki let out a surprised bellow. It galloped madly, having gained a rider, towards a certain pyramid.

* * *

The little tomb was quiet, and empty, save for the scant statues and the altar in the center. Dust coated everything within, and forgotten hieroglyphics lined the walls, long-unread. It had remained untouched for centuries, and those who had constructed it hoped that it would stay that way until the end of time. 

They, unfortunately, were wrong. 

The stone door shifted slightly, and a muffled curse could be heard from the other side. With a bang, the stone fell forward, cracking in two on the hard floor. It sent up a puff of sand and dust, obscuring the figure that had kicked the door in. 

Teiran stepped through the cloud, muttering angrily. Her dragon armour was now heavily coated in grime. She had a bit of mummy bandage sticking to one of her shoulder spikes. 

Still grumbling, she pulled a dead scarab out of her hair.  _ Stupid bloody pyramids with the stupid bloody traps and stupid bloody bugs and their stupid bloody triangle shapes….. _

She looked around the room, and saw that it was empty.

“Oi! Azzanadra! You awake?” She waved a bit of the dust away. “I got the diamonds and all that other rubbish! I even bought the fancy staff from your follower!” 

She waved the Ancient Staff. Nothing happened. 

“Just my luck. I suppose he’s having a lie-in.” She walked over to the altar and gave it a kick. 

“Hello! It’s the Fifth Age, wake up and smell the chocolatey milk!”

Slowly, a horned spectre faded into existence in front of her. 

“I knew they could not trap me here for long,” the ghostlike figure said, its voice echoing throughout the chamber. “Well done, soldier. Tell me, how goes the battle?”

Teiran shrugged. “Beats me. You’ve been trapped in a pyramid for a few centuries.”

A look of horror crossed the apparition's face. “It’s been longer than I thought! Tell me, what news of great Paddewwa? Do the shining spires of Lassar still stand? And what of glorious Annakarl? The fortress is still intact?”

“Probably not. I’ve never heard of those names.”

The spirit sunk to the ground, wringing its ghostly hands. “No! My lord... What has become of you? I cannot hear your voice in my mind anymore!” 

Teiran watched him, coldly. “Are you finished?”

Azzanadra looked up. “Beg your pardon?”

“Look,” she said, crossing her arms. “You’re a mahjarrat, right?”

“Yes… how would you presume to know?”

“Well, first of all, you’ve been trapped in a pyramid for hundreds of yours, which already limits you from being a less-squishy species,” she said, counting off on her fingers. “You’re not solid enough to be a golem. The Kharidian Desert is too sunny for you to be a vampire. Someone out there has been touchy enough about me bringing you back that I’d take you to be more influential than a ghost. So unless you’re a rather persistent bit of marsh gas, then I’d take you for a mahjarrat.”

“Your observations are… astute,” Azzanadra said. “Tell me: Are you one of my devoted followers? Or in the employ of my lord?”

“No. I’m looking for information.”

“Of what?”

“Lucien. Another Mahjarrat. Do you know him? Are you cousins or something?”

The spectre scoffed. “Presumptuous of you to assume our relation. We are not.”

“Fine then. What can you tell me about him?”

Azzanadra thought for a moment. “He is a slippery one. Always power-hungry. He sided with the Zamorakians during the betrayal of the Empty Lord—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved it away. “Does he have any weaknesses? Allergies? Favorite hiding spots wherein which he may hide a couple of all-powerful wossnames, one of them being on the rather largish side?”

The apparition shook his head. “I do not know of such a place.”

Teiran took a breath. “So nothing useful, then.”

“I’m afraid not.”

She turned and kicked a small statue over, where it fell and shattered with a crack. “Damn him!” she shouted. “Damn him and godsdamned slimy little network! Damn him and everything he touches!”

She huffed. “Maybe I should try Draynor next…”

She began to exit the room. 

“Wait!” Azzanadra yelled. “Aren’t you interested in your reward? I have great knowledge of ancient magic…”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved a half-heartedly, still walking. “Magic away.” 

The feeling of the spells hitting her mind was achingly familiar; the information overload, the confusion, the brief headache afterwards… even as she felt the new power in her fingertips, she wished she didn’t have it. 

As soon as it was done, she continued out of the tomb, ignoring the mummies and the scarab swarms the whole way out. 

* * *

“I’ve been fired.”

Teiran glared at the stranger. “Is that your final answer?”

He looked down. He was swaying, slightly, as the palm tree he was dangling from bent under his weight. Mudskipper Point’s water bubbled underneath him with the fury of an unseen force.

Teiran tossed a bottle of fishing explosive from hand to hand. “Funny things, Mogres. They more or less stay underwater unless disturbed. But as soon as you bug them, it’s up to the surface and attacking the closest fleshy things within reach. I wonder if they’ve ever seen a pinata before?”

The stranger willed himself to stay still, despite the desperate desire to wriggle in his bonds. “I’m telling you the truth!” he cried. “We got a message from the boss — it said that we were relieved of our duties from that point forward.”

Teiran held the fishing explosive aloft. “How did you get the message?”

“It came into my head! Like someone was whispering into my ear!”

She lowered the bottle. “Like Lunar Magic, then?” she muttered to herself. “No, Oneiromancer’d be able to tell if he even set foot on the island… probably some dark magic rubbish…”

She looked back at the stranger. “What are you doing around Draynor, then?”

He smiled nervously. “Looking for work, in all honesty.”

“Hmph. Lose the hood and the shady disposition.”

She took out a dragon longsword. The stranger’s face paled. 

“I told you everything, I swear! Don’t hurt me!”

“Oh, stop your whining.” She held up the sword. “Have you got a family?”

“Y-yes. A wife. And three, lovely, sweet, adorable children who will miss their d—”

“How nice. What are their names?”

“Ah. Erm. Jane. And. Harry? And, ah, Jimmy…?”

“How sweet. Are you gonna tell me that little Jimmy has the West Ardougne plague next, and you were saving up for the cure so you could see his wonderful little face one last time?”

“Er…”

“Hmph. I’m surprised you weren’t fired sooner. You’re a dreadful liar.” She held the sword up to the rope. “I’m going to cut you loose. The mogres aren’t terribly close to the surface, but if you hit the water, I really wouldn’t chance it by loitering.”

“Wait!” the stranger cried. “Can’t you drag me a bit closer to land?”

Teiran blinked. “Are you going to be picky over the fact that I’m feeling unusually generous?”

He gulped. “Never mind. Cut me free as you wish.”

“Good boy.”

She swung the sword. 

There was a scream, and a splash, and a distant, watery roar. A damp blur rushed past her, hotly pursued by something large, fishy and angry. 

Teiran paid it no mind. She sheathed her sword, turned away from the lowering sun and, with a heavy sigh, headed home.

* * *

On the fourth day, Marianne waited for her at the kitchen table with crossed arms and a determined expression on her face.

“Are you cross at me?” Teiran asked, taking a seat across from her. “If this is about me testing out that teleport spell on the armoire, then don’t worry. It just ended up in Edgeville, and I was able to get it back before the giant spiders did anything to it.”

“No, miss. It’s not that. Though I will say getting the cobwebs off will be a bugger.” She looked to the side, and then back to Teiran again. 

“I’m worried about you, miss. These past few days… when have you had a rest? How long have you been sleeping?”

“Plenty. Four hours at a time.”

“That’s not enough, miss.”

“I’ve been a little preoccupied, alright? It’s just for this week.”

“Miss… you’ve barely been home at all. You’re up at the crack of dawn, which I’ve never seen you willingly do. All you’ve done is go out and come back, and eat and sleep… I’m happy you’re busy again, but you need to take a day off.”

“I don’t have time for a day off,” she said, getting up. “Today I’ve got to try and track down Movario. If I can’t find him, then I’ll probably have to bug Reldo, and maybe question the barkeep at The Flying Horse, and see if I can get back into that bloody temple in the north…”

She shuddered, internally. She had zero desire to visit the last location, but it might be her only chance at finding something,  _ anything _ that could lead her to Lucien… 

“It’s not healthy, miss. Please.” Her lower lip wobbled. “You’re never at home, and you’ve got dark circles under your eyes and you haven’t even noticed Roland isn’t eating!”

Teiran’s stomach turned. “He isn’t?”

“No!” Marianne’s eyes watered. “I took him his bucket of coal and his sixteen raw chickens last night as usual, and he hadn’t touched the ones from yesterday, either! All he does is stare at the trapdoor and sigh!”

Teiran squeezed her eyes shut. Marianne was right. She hadn’t seen to the dragon in awhile. And, thinking about it, she hadn’t been getting enough sleep. The energy and fury that had powered her for the past few days… it was burning out. And her body was starting cash in the loans she was taking out on it. 

She sighed, as a wave of tiredness passed over her. “Ok. I’ll take today off.”

Marianne brightened, cautiously. “Really?”

Teiran smiled wearily. “Really. Let’s go see to Roland, alright?

The maid nodded. “Ok.”

* * *

True to Marianne’s word, Roland was staring at the trapdoor when they entered. He didn’t take his eyes off of it even as they descended the ladder. Two mounds of coal sat beside him, untouched, as did a small pile of raw chickens. 

Teiran reached out to touch him, and pulled her hand back immediately, sucking on her fingers. 

“He’s hot as a forge,” she said. “I’ve never seen him like this before.”

She waved her hand in front of his face. Roland’s eyes didn’t move. 

“Hey,” she said. “C’mon, mate. You’ve got to eat something.” She held up a piece of coal. He ignored it.

Teiran turned to Marianne. “Run to the bank and fetch me a lava eel.”

The maid left, and returned a minute later, holding an oily package. Teiran pulled the eel out and held it to the dragon’s nose.

“This was the only thing he’d eat while he was teething,” she said, waving it in front of his face. “You can’t get them on the Grand Exchange, so Cyrisus had to spend a lot of time down in the Taverley Dungeon.”

The dragon didn’t even smell the fish. Instead, he kept staring.

Teiran sighed. “I think we need an expert.”

“Who would that be?”

“Mazchna, maybe. I suppose Kaqueemex…”

“Didn’t Asmodeus mention Kuradal was willing to take him in?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Run up and fetch my rune box.”

It was the first time Teiran had used the Contact spell since the Wilderness incident, and she wasn’t prepared for the small grey tile where Cyrisus’s contact had once been. On impulse, she pressed it; and was both relieved and disappointed when nothing happened. 

She moved on, finding Kuradal on the list and sending over a call, hoping the slayer master wasn’t in the middle of a dungeon management crisis. 

The spell crackled in her ears, and connected. 

“Ello!” Kuradal’s voice boomed in her head. “What are you after, then?”

“Kuradal,” Teiran said. “It’s me. I’ve got a bit of a dragon problem.”

“Sure then. What colour? Would you be supplying the antifire potions? I can offer a discount if you let me keep the skins.”

“No, nothing that needs to be slain. It’s Cyrisus’s dragon. Roland. He’s not eating, and he’s burning up. And not in a healthy way, I think.”

“Hmmm. I can’t say for sure. Can you get him over here? The beasts here have been a little restless, and Otto raises such a fuss when one of them gets out on his lawn.”

“You’ll be able to help him?” She looked over at the little dragon. His eyes were more sunken in than she had seen before, and while his scales shone and his nostrils glowed with the light of the fire within, she sensed that not everything was right. Size aside, he seemed far from the bright little creature she’d met when she first fell from the trapdoor. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kuradal said. “Bring him whenever you’re ready.”

“Ok. We’ll be there soon.”


	27. Everlasting Fire

“Lucien has given you a great gift.”

Teiran turned towards Kuradal, her eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “What?”

Below, Roland sat in a corner of the cave, wearily watching the half-dozen other young blue dragons wrestled and played, nipping at each other and barking with hot, tiny bursts of flame. 

Getting him to the cave had been a bit of a hassle — in the end, it took a couple of melted games necklaces and the help of Otto Godblessed to get him into the dungeon — but Kuradal had eventually managed to wrangle him into the pen with the other juvenile dragons. 

“Lucien. He has given you a blessing,” Kuradal said. “He has given you the gift of vengeance.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I want to have vengeance?”

“Hmm.” Kuradal reached into a damp sack next to her. She pulled out a limp leaping salmon and tossed it to the throng of dragons below. They sprung towards the fish with a chorus of howls and yips, scrabbling at the lucky victor that snatched it out of the air. Roland raised his head and sniffed, curiously, but didn’t otherwise move.

“What motivates you?” Kuradal asked. “What has driven you? What is the sole thing that’s been burning within your mind since everything?”

Teiran’s expression darkened. “Killing the filthy, slimy, disgusting bag of snakes that —”

Kuradal held up a hand. “You’ve answered your own question.”

Roland had gotten up by now. While he still stood at the edge of the cave, he was watching the other dragons more intently. Kuradal tossed the throng another salmon, increasing the chaos therein. 

“Why,” Teiran asked slowly, “would vengeance be a good thing?”

“It is a driving force, fiercer than any mere particle of inspiration,” Kuradal said. “Toned with discipline, it is a rage that moves mountains. It melts the frost of apathy; before it cowers the arrogant, and through its heat justice is served. And, in a way, it is healing.”

Teiran began to speak, but something occurred to her. The anger she’d felt back in Falador… and back in the Lumbridge caves. It had felt  _ good. _ It had felt like something, first of all. Something that wasn’t anguish or helplessness. And it felt like she could fight something. Fight the pain. Fight the thing that caused it…

“Anger,” she said, half to herself. “Isn’t that supposed to be a bad thing?”

Kuradal let out a laugh. “Anger is a part of anyone, as much as joy or grief or love. How can it be bad? It is only bad when it consumes you.”

She tossed another fish to the dragons. Roland had now taken a few cautious steps forward, and was actively watching the other dragons fight. 

“Anger is like fire,” the slayer master said. “It keeps you warm. It also burns your house down. It is how you use it — not how it uses you — that determines which outcome comes to pass.”

“How do I do that, then?”

Kuradal smirked. “The barbarians here have it down to an art; their rage is bottomless, as is their fierceness in battle. And it is a rage that they manufacture. To have an enemy is an envied thing among the Fremennik.”

“So… I need to scream every time I go into battle?”

“No!” Kuradal whacked her upside the head, dislodging Teiran’s cavalier. The adventurer yelped, and managed to grab it before it fell into the pit below. 

“Perhaps I should explain it in broader terms,” Kuradal said. “Take the pyrefiend.”

“It’s a small, screamy little imp covered in flames. What about it?”

“It has fire, yes?” Kuradal said. “It is driven by a desire to express it. But, truly, it is like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Its fire is directionless. It yells, but it does not aim its flames in any given place. It attacks when it feels like it, because its rage compels it to do so, even when it will easily be crushed. And one bucket of water on it — foof! — and it becomes a little hopping lump of charcoal. All anger, no heat.”

“Now,” Kuradal continued, “take the dragon.”

She tossed a fish into the pit, aiming it carefully so that it landed at Roland’s feet. The little dragon blinked at the salmon. He sniffed at it, only to be interrupted by a snarl from one of the dragons in the main pack. 

The group all stared at Roland and his fish, growling and belching smoke. Roland returned the growl — and opened his mouth wide. 

A jet of flame, white and hot, burst forth from his mouth. 

“The dragon holds its rage,” Kuradal said, Roland’s distant flame flickering across her face. “It nurtures it, deep inside its belly. It lets it build. It waits for the right moment. And then, when the time comes, it releases it.”

As Roland’s flame grew bigger and hotter, several of the other dragons turned tail. The one in the front stood its ground for all of 30 seconds, until Roland burped a ball of fire that enveloped the entire creature’s front half. It scrambled away, its scales black with soot, as Roland sat down over his fish with a satisfied snort.

“If you pour a bucket of water on a dragon, the flame does not go out,” Kuradal said. “Aimed right, it can melt metal, burn flesh, liquify stone. It is a weapon that is a part of them as my hand or your eyes — and it does not burn them, no matter how hot it becomes. And it is made of patience.”

She turned to Teiran. “Do you understand?”

Teiran nodded, slowly. “I think so.”

“Good.” She pointed down to Roland. “Your dragon seems to be eating now.”

She was right. He was devouring the leaping salmon like his life depended on it — only stopping to snap at the other juveniles attempting to sneak up on him mid-meal. 

“How did you do that?” Teiran asked, amazed. Kuradal laughed. 

“He has lost something, too. He is much like you. With nothing to fight, he has nothing to live for. Now he must battle for his fair share. He has something to direct his rage at, instead of himself.”

She got up, and emptied the bag of salmon into the pen. A cacophony of joyous dragon screeches ensued as the horde fought over the feast. Roland, having finished his fish, joined them. 

Teiran watched him with a pang of sadness. “He’s happy here, among his own kind, isn’t he?”

Kuradal nodded. “Dragons are social creatures at this age. A few years from now, and he will become more solitary. But for now, he would be healthiest staying with the others.”

“Hmm.” Teiran watched him fight among the others, cheerfully headbutting his way to a wayward fish. “Could he stay?”

“It has been arranged.” Kuradal slung the still-fishy bag over her shoulder. “Cyrisus was planning to have the dragon come here, in any case. I still owe him a few favors.”

“What for?”

“Ah, trifles. Helping me with a small dark beast problem after one of them broke into the Ancient Caverns. Clearing out a few Dagannoth on behalf of Otto. Killing TzTok-Jad while I took notes. That kind of thing.”  She offered Teiran a hand, who took it.

“He was a good man,” Kuradal said. She hefted Teiran up, who tried not to wince from the bone-crushing grip. “I would see to it if his death was not in vain.”

Teiran winced again, though this time not from the pain in her hand. “Your father, too…”

“Yes.” Kuradal looked back to the dragons again. “His death, too, drives me. I consider Lucien as my kill. But we have a shared goal in that respect.”

“Have you heard anything of him? Or mahjarrat in general?”

“Hmmm. They are immortal and powerful. A challenge. My father was no weakling, for as much I tried to outrank him. I have been told they are unkillable.” She grinned. “I intend to disprove that. Lucien’s blood spilled will be a testament and honour to my father’s memory.”

She turned back to Teiran. “And of you?”

Teiran clenched her fists. She felt that flicker again, deep within her chest and around her shoulders. The fire. The fury. That burn that had driven her for the past few days had rekindled, and even the sadness of having to leave behind Roland did not diminish it.

“I’ll make him pay,” she said. “And if that means that I have to hack off each limb and grind them to dust one by one while he watches, so be it.”

She sighed, and turned back to the little dragon back in the pen below.

“I should say goodbye,” she said. “It wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t.”

“Suit yourself.” Kuradel kicked down the collapsible iron ladder leading to the pit. She climbed down first, and the other dragons gave her a wide berth as she descended. Roland, however, remained where he was, still chewing on a bit of fish bone. 

“He’s well socialized,” Kuradal said, nodding approvingly as Teiran climbed down. “I would worry that he is coddled, though he has a fighting spirit to him.”

“He’ll be ok, right?” Teiran asked, running her hand down the dragon’s back. He was still hot to the touch, but not to the point of burning her as before. Roland nuzzled her hand, lightly biting the arm of her dragon plate out of habit.  “Good boy,” she murmured. 

Kuradal patted the dragon on the head. “He’ll be fine here. I only keep adults in the main dungeon, so any of my slaying students will stay away from him.”

Teiran scratched Roland behind the horns, hitting his favorite spot. The dragon squawked and froze, flopping over onto the ground. 

Teiran sighed. “I’m going to miss you, little guy. But you’ll be happier here than being cooped up in a dungeon.”

She gave him one last belly rub, and stood up, headed towards the ladder. Roland gave her a momentary glance before getting up himself, and wandering over to fight with the others for the last scraps of fish. Teiran reached the top and watched them wrestle for awhile.

“Do you think he’ll remember me? Or Cyrisus?”

Kuradal shrugged. “Dragons can have long memories. Blue dragons, however, tend to be on the stupider side. So he may. He may not.”

Teiran watched as Roland managed to snag a salmon from another juvenile’s jaws, the robbed dragon screeching angrily. 

“It might be better if he doesn’t remember,” she said. “He had a good start. If Mazchna hadn’t found him, he’d probably be a bunch of bones sitting in someone’s bank box right now.”

“Perhaps.” Kuradal turned to the adventurer. “As for you, I would hope you do not forget. Vengeance thrives on memory.”

Teiran clenched her fist again, her nails digging into the palm. 

“Trust me,” she said. “I won’t.”

* * *

Teiram told herself she would go home after that, but she remembered she had a bunch of maple logs in the Grand Exchange she needed to check on, and she conceded to a quick visit.

It turned out to be pointless; only three of them had sold since the last week, which wasn’t even enough to cover the cost of a Varrock teleport. Grumbling, she pocketed the change and left in a huff, figuring she could at least grab a cup of tea before the day was done. As she exited, a goblin tried to jump in front of her, waving a brightly-coloured sign.

“Fabulous prizes!” It squealed. “Wonderful cosmetics! Brighten up your wardrobe! Genie’s lamps ga—”

The goblin’s spiel was interrupted by a swift kick to its stomach, sending it sailing. It landed with a wet splat on the Grand Exchange’s walls, sliding to the ground as it gurgled about lucky armour. 

“I’ve no time for sales pitches,” Teiran said, not even slowing down.

She walked through the main square, hoping that particular little interlude would be the last distraction of the day, when she nearly crashed into a certain fortuneteller.

“Oof! Aris, I —” she started, but the fortuneteller’s expression stopped her from finishing her sentence. “I don’t suppose you’re here to warn me that the price of maple is about to dip?”

The fortuneteller looked back and forth. “I would advise you to come inside, child. There are revelations I must share with you.”

“Do I have a choice in the matter?”

“No.”

Aris had been expecting her; there was already a cup of tea waiting on one side of the table with a full sugar bowl sitting next to it. Teiran sat down and measured a careful spoonful, before putting it to the side and tipping the rest of the bowl into the cup. 

The fortuneteller took a seat across from her, her crystal ball between them. 

“Child,” Aris said. “Firstly, I offer you my condolences. And my apologies.”

Teiran looked down and took a gulp of the tea-sugar slurry. “I suppose I should have listened to you,” she said. “But you probably know how good at that I am.”

Aris grimaced. “You acted within your capacity, child. As did he. The threads of fate cannot be shifted.”

“Ha! Fate,” Teiran spat, her eyes fixed on her syrupy tea. “Tell me. What does fate have in store for me next? Death and doom and destruction? I was rather hoping I could be the source of that, if that’s possible.”

“No. It is, in a way, worse,” Aris said gravely. “It is a future I cannot see at all.”

Teiran looked up. “What do you mean? Aren’t futures supposed to be, er, unseeable?”

“No. it is… concealed. When I attempt to gaze forward, I can see glimpses of what is to come… until a certain point. After that? Nothing.”

“What  _ do _ you see?”

Aris concentrated, closing her eyes and holding her hands to her temples. “I see.. A battle… a devastated jungle… creatures of ice… and…”

She hissed. “Vengeance.. From above…and…” a look of confusion crossed her face. “A heart? And… a shadow…”

She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge some spare thoughts from within. “That is all that I can see,” she said. “After that… blackness.”

“Blackness as in… death?” Teiran asked, a creeping horror making its way up her spine. Aris shook her head.

“No, no. Rather more like… concealment. Your future continues. But I cannot see what it holds. It is as though it is covered by darkness.”

Teiran pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t suppose the other visions indicate that I’ll spend next week hanging around the Khazard battlefield, cleaning up around Tai Bwo Wannai, killing some icefiends and visiting the meat man?”

“It is unclear. They do not have the air of benevolence.”

“And this... darkness. Is it only the case for me?”

Aris considered this. She got up from her chair, hobbled over the tent flap, and stuck her head out. 

“Indeed,” she said, turning back around. “I can see others’ future clear as day. Maple is going down, by the way, you’ll probably want to pull any stock you have before it falls too much, dear.”

Teiran squeezed her eyes shut and took a breath, delicately placing her still half-full cup down on the table. “I don’t suppose you have any specific warnings? Revelations from Guthix about the one true weakness of the mahjarrat that would, say, take one out in a single hit?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Ok then.” She stared at her tea, which had by now gone cold. “I’ll just have to be careful, then. Which you know by now is also something that I’m not particularly good at.”

“Ah, child.” The fortuneteller gave her a sad smile. “The more we try to avoid our fate, then the more we rush toward it.”

“Then is there any point in telling me all this?”

“The future is… ineffable. And unmovable. But it can be shifted. In small ways.”

Teiran gave her a very hard look. “You don’t happen to know any gnomes, do you?”

“I have met one or two, in my travels. But none in particular come to mind.”

“Hmph.” She went to get up, but then considered something. 

“Can you… speak to the great beyond, so to say? Can you talk to the dead?”

A grim look crossed Aris’ face. “It is not a field I am adept to dabble in. I cannot; few can. And those who do resort to dark methods, for dark purposes.”

“Is it impossible?”

“Conventionally? Yes. I know not much of the afterlife; but it is a one-way bridge, so to speak. Death himself would only know.”

Teiran stood up. “Well, I don’t plan on meeting him any time soon. Thank you for the tea — and the warning — but I should go.”

“Very well, then,” the fortuneteller said. “Take care, adventurer. And I am sorry. I truly am. I wish I could have prevented this.”

As Teiran pushed aside the tent flap to re-enter the streets of Varrock, she thought, hotly, to herself,  _ I do too. _

* * *

She got home in the late afternoon, arriving before it got dark for the first time in what felt like ages. Marianne made her stew, Asmodeus updated her on the patch of marigolds he had coming along, and she spent the evening working on fletching. 

She went to the dungeon almost out of habit; before the Lumbridge Cavern incident (which, she had to keep reminding herself, had been less than a week before), she used to go down every night to say goodnight to the dragon. 

An empty room greeted her as she descended. One of the servants had cleared away the charcoal and the chickens; however, the hay-piles and heavily chewed-on piece adamant plate that Roland had used for a teething toy remained. 

Teiran shivered. It was colder than she remembered — perhaps because of the absence of Roland’s usual residual heat, though it could have been just her. 

“I’ll miss you,” she said to the empty room. “I already do. But it’s for the best. You’re happier there. And Cyrisus was planning for it, anyways.”

She tried to reassure herself with those thoughts, but prickly doubt gnawed at her chest. She wanted Roland to be better.  _ Of course _ she did. But sending him away felt like a betrayal. 

She sat on the hay pile and pulled out the dragon helm. She didn’t know why she took it with her everywhere. She knew that she wouldn’t be getting into combat worthy of wearing it — certainly not today. But she had taken to putting it in her bag every morning, like some sort of good luck charm. 

The ring around her neck remained, too. She never took that off. Not even to shower. She’d tug it, now and again, just to make sure it was still there. 

“I think today went ok,” she said to the helm. “It’s getting easier, I suppose.”

Her voice echoed throughout the empty little cavern. She supposed it was probably too cosy to be considered a proper dungeon. There’s probably need to be more dripping walls and glowing fungi and dastardly traps and cackling skulls for it to be a  _ really _ proper dungeon. Not a pile of hay, a half-mauled mithril chestplate, and a noticeable absence of a dragon. 

Maybe she could redecorate. The Wilderness had plenty of skeletons to spare…

“I don’t know what I want,” she said suddenly. “Revenge on Lucien, I suppose. Saving Gielinor or whatever.”  She traced the dent on the helmet with her thumb. “I suppose what I really want is you back. But I don’t think that’s possible.”

She closed her eyes. “I wish I could talk to you. Even for a minute or two. Ask you for advice. Say hello. Or goodbye, at least.”

She wanted a lot of things, actually; she wanted to hear his voice. She wanted to tell him she was ok. She wanted to _know_ if he was ok. 

She wanted to hold him. To be held by him. Gods, it had been weeks since she’d been held. She wondered if she would ever let anyone hold her like that again. 

“I miss you,” she said, her voice thick. As she said it, she felt herself sliding back again. She’d been fine —  _ just fine  _ — for the past few days. But now it was like she looked down and realized she was on a tightrope, and she could feel it wobble. 

“Gods, I miss you,” she said again. “You know, it’s bloody lonely not having you around. Not coming home to you. Not being able to call you. Not being able to tell you anything.”

She sighed. “I went through life bloody well fine by myself before I met you. But then I had to find you in that damn cave and everything got so  _ complicated.” _ She sniffed. “And you made me angry. And flustered. And happy. How can I say I wish I’d never found you?”

She took a deep breath, feeling her chest ache as she did so. “I’m sorry, Cyrisus,” she said. “I’m sorry it ended up this way. I’m sorry it couldn’t have lasted longer.”

She looked down at the helm, regarding her expression in the helmet's shining surface. Her face was blotchy, and her eyes were swollen. She looked tired, which made her feel even more so. 

“I wish…” She started, but then trailed off.  _ I wish I could go back to the way things were before. _

She sat in silence, willing the dreadful raw feeling in her chest to dissolve. 

It was a cruel irony, Teiran supposed, that the one person she longed to comfort her most was robbed from her. She knew she’d be fine in the morning. She knew she’d be fine when she let the fury take over again. 

But right then, right there, down in the empty dungeon, she felt more alone and cold than ever before. 


	28. Dangerous Way

“I’m not helping you.”

Dr. Nabanik raised an eyebrow. “You’re under no obligation to do so.”

Teiran narrowed her eyes. “You’ve got that look about you. Like you know something I don’t.”

They were standing in a quieter corner of the Dig Site, as various students and researchers bustled about them. As one passed by, Dr. Nabanik cautiously pulled his hat a little lower. 

“Knowing more than you is to be expected,” he said. “I’m thousands of years old. I’ve outlived scores of human generations and studied ancient magic longer than your bloodline has probably even existed. The only thing you could possibly know more about me is where all the good bars are.”

She snorted. “Don’t expect me to educate you. Or help you any further.”

“Oh, come now. Humour an old mahjarrat,” he said. “It’s just an excavation.”

“Do I look like an archaeologist?” she retorted, gesturing to herself. 

“Well, you’ve got a whip and a nice hat.”

“What does that have to do with anything?!” She threw up her arms. “And in any case, I’m not about to help you commune with Zaros, all-powerful lord of darkness or whatever.”

“He’s not a lord of darkness!” Dr. Nabanik said, looking hurt. “That’s filthy Zamorakian propaganda. He’s the divine aspect of fate and control, counterpart to the el —”

She waved him away. “I don’t care if he’s the lord of darkness, or fate, or cabbages. I don’t want anything to do with gods. I’m leaving now.”

“I have something you might be interested in.”

“If it’s massive amounts of gold, I’m all set by that account.”

That was a lie. She actually wanted the money. But she wanted to walk away from this even more.

“Money,” Dr. Nabanik said, “I can offer. But I think you’re rather more in the market for information.”

_ That _ made her turn. “Information,” she said, carefully, “regarding  _ what, _ exactly?”

“A certain member of our kind who you asked me about. Lucien, I believe.”

She was six inches away from his face in three seconds. 

“Spill,” she said.

Dr. Nabanik grinned. “After you help me.”

She glared at the archaeologist. The grin stayed fixed on his face.

“I helped you,” she growled. “I hope you recall that. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be shut in a pyramid looking like a shittier version of Icthlarin.”

“I’m quite aware,” Dr. Nabanik said. “And I am grateful for that. However, did I not grant you knowledge of the Ancient Magicks, an art that usually requires years of careful study and practice? I do believe that would render us, ah,  _ even. _ ”

_ Like hell it does, _ she thought to herself. She was tempted to threaten him, as much as that would cause a scene in the middle of the excavation site — and earlier, she would have. But something told her that she shouldn’t underestimate the mahjarrat. Or any mahjarrat, really. 

“ _ Fine, _ ” she said, stepping back. “I’ll help you call home or whatever. But if the intel you give me isn’t any good, I’m telling every Saradominist, Zamorakian, and Zaros-hating individual in Misthalin what you  _ really _ are.”

Dr. Nabanik raised an eyebrow again, as though daring her to try. “I can assure that it is information that will be helpful to you,” he said. “Lucien is a Zamorakian — or, at least, he claims to be — and his recent activities have been… troubling. Thus, I have been watching for his whereabouts.”

“Fine enough. What do you need me to do?”

“Firstly, I need approval to start excavation on the Dig Site.”

“Schmoozing. Easy enough. What next?”

“The other two tasks I have for you are a bit more… difficult,” Dr. Nabanik said. “One item is found in a frozen fortress, far north and west from here. It’s a treacherous journey, and no doubt filled with ice monsters.”

Teiran cracked her knuckles. “Target practice, you mean. What’s the other one?”

“An ancient icon. An old Zarosian artefact that drains prayer. It’s located under a particular set of burial mounds in Morytania, guarded quite viciously by —”

“Wait, wait,” Teiran cut in. “You’re saying I need to go and fight the Barrows Brothers for this thing?”

“Presumably. Will that be an issue?”

Teiran looked to the north. It had been weeks since she’d heard from Crux Equal or Idria, and her leads had long turned to dead ends. Azzanadra’s offer had been the first breakthrough in ages.

She sighed. “Eh, I just stocked up on sharks in any case.”

* * *

Teiran slid down into the tomb, coughing and sneezing through the cloud of dirt her entrance had kicked up. 

“Would it kill the Strange Old Man,” she hacked, “to put in a ladder or something?”

It probably would, she reflected. Getting him to sell her a shovel without ranting about dreadful knock-knock jokes was a hassle and a half already. A ladder might just end up in a stand-up routine about Jennica’s ring.

She shook the dirt from her hair and stepped towards the stone coffin in the center of the chamber. 

“Dharok,” she said, kicking the tomb. “Wake up. It’s time to die. Again.”

A spectral greataxe slammed into the stone in front of her, just barely missing her arm. Teiran had been expecting this, and dodged. 

“So much for the welcoming committee,” she muttered. She lobbed a fire spell at the wight that had materialized behind her, the flames’ light dancing on the dirt walls of the chamber.

The spell bounced uselessly off Dharok’s armour. 

“Shoot.” She ducked under another swing, firing off a second spell. This one went wide, blasting a smoking hole into one of the walls.

“Third time’s the charm?” She said. Dharok raised his axe again. 

She rolled under the attack as the blade slammed into the ground, sending up a spray of dirt, half-blinding her. Teiran let loose yet another fire spell, managing to hit the undead. 

It let out a howl, and Teiran grinned. “Now  _ that’s _ more like it!” She crowed. “How does it feel, being a giant, pink, toasted mar — OOF!”

The axe slammed into her side, knocking the air out of her lungs. Though her dragon platebody absorbed most of the impact, the blow still sent her flying backwards into a wall. 

She grunted in pain.  _ Ow. That one’s going to bruise. _

She picked herself up, dodging another swing from the axe and firing off another spell, which hit. Dharok shook this one off, despite the singes now showing in his ghostly armour. 

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” Teiran asked, preparing another blast. 

The wight groaned, swinging the axe as Teiran fired a wayward spell just past his head. She ducked again, and managed to roll over to the other side of the stone sarcophagus. The next spell hit its mark, and Dharok was beginning to look considerably weaker on his feet.

“Not much of a life, is it?” she said, as the Barrows brothers flailed at her over the stone coffin. “Or un-life, I suppose. Does it get tiring, having people come in and re-kill you again and again, day in, day out?”

The wight groaned, and slammed its axe into the stone lid. 

“I figured as such.”

Dharok pulled the axe from the stone and barreled around the side of the coffin, roaring. Teiran, startled by the sudden attack, hastily backpedaled, and her foot met a small pile of debris on the floor.

Gravity had its way, and she slipped and crashed on the ground on her bum. “Ooof!” 

Dharok slowly marched over to her. She scrambled to get up, her feet slipping in the dust and dirt.  _ Shit, shit, I can’t aim spells from down here… _

She scooted back, only stopping when her back hit the wall behind her. The wight continued to approach. 

_ Bugger the runes. _ She grabbed her whip and let loose a low lash, feeling a satisfying tension along the length as it wrapped around Dharok’s ankle. 

She pulled. Gravity had its way again, and the undead crashed to the ground. 

Now she managed to get up, the whip still wrapped around the wight’s ankle. He struggled on the floor, shouting ethereally as she let a fire spell charge in her hand.

“Give it a rest,” she said. 

She fired. Dharok stopped struggling. 

“Good riddance,” she said. “You poor buggers probably don’t get enough quiet anyways.”

She turned towards the ladder out of the crypt when something darted out of the corner of her eye. She turned, whip ready, but there was nothing in the tomb, save for the sarcophagus and Dharok’s body.

She shook her head. “Bloody shadows. Playing tricks on my mind.”

She descended the ladder and exited the crypt. Below, on the dirt floor, in a room as quiet as the grave it was, something dark slithered. 

* * *

The other Barrows brothers went down easily — or about as easily as four heavily-armoured undead warriors could. Verac had done a bit of a number on her, and Guthan had been a bit of a hassle until she trapped him behind a pile of rocks while she safe-spotted air spells, but Torag didn’t put up too much of a fight. Karil had simply fired arrows at her half-heartedly until giving up.

Ahrim she saved until last. His tomb, of course, led to the crypt tunnels — she wasn’t sure how they changed entrances all the time. She chalked it down to being one of the mysteries of life, like why Verac’s brassard somehow provided more armour protection than a dragon platebody despite covering less surface area than a couple of pie-tins. 

The tunnels, as always, were labyrinthe, and filled with small annoyances such as random skeletons, horrifying dog-sized bloodsucking worms and the groans of the forsaken Saradominist warriors. 

Teiran kicked a rat out of the way as she scanned one of the numerous, featureless rooms that made up the lower crypts.

“Are you going to show your face or what?!” she yelled. “Or at least show me the way to the bloody treasure room, at least. I haven’t got all day.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the claustrophobia of being underground or the repeated spikes in adrenaline, but something was setting her on edge. She was feeling twitchy, more so than healthy battle readiness called for.

A shadow darted out of the corner of her eye. She lashed at it, instinctively, but her whip simply cracked mid-air, over a big patch of innocuous nothing.

She gripped her weapon tighter and muttered a curse to herself.  _ This place is getting to me. Too many voices. Not enough room to maneuver. _

She tried the door for the next room, which was devoid of enemies. This put her even more on edge. Empty rooms seldom meant anything good or useful. Besides the lack of enormous piles of money, bare rooms usually meant that something was about to kill you and didn’t want to scuff their furniture. 

“Hello?” She called. The dirt walls muffled her voice, making it sound as stuffy and stale as the air she breathed. 

Teiran took a cautious step forward. “If you’re going to ambush me, I’m already expecting it. So cut to the chase and save us both a bit of time, m’k?”

An enemy failed to materialize. She didn’t know if this was better or worse. 

She took another step. Nothing. Then another. Still nothing.

Feeling her heart beat in her chest, she took a deep breath and strode towards the door, looking back anxiously as she did so. 

_ “ _ Damnit,” she muttered. “Stupid puzzle door.” She fiddled with the controls, cursing to herself as the first combination she tried didn’t work. 

_ Such anger, _ a voice said, slithering around the edge of her hearing like a snake’s hiss. _ How could a funny little creature like you hold so much rage in their heart? It’s almost impressive… _

She whipped around. “Who said that?”

The silence of the empty room greeted her. She waited about a moment, scanning the room carefully before returning to the lock. It was probably one of the Barrows _ , _ she thought to herself, rambling about the inevitable agony of undeath or whatever…

_ Agony, hmmm? _ The voice hissed.  _ I think I can show you agony. Wouldn’t that be fun? _

She whipped around again. This time, an empty room didn’t greet her; instead, the dark image of Arhim greeted her, tinged red and translucent against the dirt. Despite their colour, however, she could still recognize the robes he wore — painfully familiar, painfully recent.

She froze, weapon in hand, unable to move. Arhim didn’t move either — he stood, seemingly waiting for her to make an attack.

“It’s a wight,” she hissed to herself. “Same clothes, yes. But not him. It’s a wight. You need to get through him to get the icon to get to Lucien. C’mon.  _ Move _ . It’s just a wight.”

Her body, however, refused to respond. Around her, the hissing voice laughed. 

_ Paralyzed! _ It giggled. _ Over the same dress. How stupid. How hilarious. I could watch this all day. _

Somehow, this broke the spell over her. 

“Oh, will you SHUT UP!” she roared, willing her muscles back to life. She lunged at the undead mage, winding up an attack as she did so. 

However, as she lashed her whip, Arhim vanished.

Teiran caught herself mid-air, landing on the ground less-than-gracefully, but avoiding crashing onto the floor. She turned, reeling, looking for the disappeared undead, but the room remained just as empty as before. 

She brushed herself off with a huff.  _ I need to get out of here. This place really is getting to me. _

It only took a couple more minutes for her to finish the puzzle on the door, but it felt like forever between the anxious glances she kept shooting to the space behind her. 

As the door unlocked with a click and swung open, she braced herself for a fight, sure that the final brother could be waiting for her by the tomb in the center of the room. However, like the crypt before it, it was devoid of anything fightable.

That didn’t stop her from keeping the whip ready, even as she kicked the stone top off the coffin. The sound of the lid crashing to the ground made her jump more than she should have, but at this point, she didn’t care. 

Teiran peered over the side. A small statuette rested in the middle of the sarcophagus. Folded neatly under it was an Arhim’s robetop. 

Taking no chances, she cast Telekinetic Grab on the little figure. It flew into her hands and she pocketed it as quickly as she could. 

She refused to even touch the armour. 

Then she turned around. She could hear the customary rumble of the imminent Barrows crypt collapse starting in the distance, but otherwise saw nothing.

“Hmph,” she grunted. “Cute trick. Trying to spook me like that. Anyways, I’ve got your icon now. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Nothing in the tomb stirred. She snorted. 

“I thought so.”

With that, she teleported away, leaving nothing but the undisturbed robe top at the bottom of the sarcophagus, and a single shadow on the wall that remained long after she departed. 

* * *

After the Barrows fight, the ice fortress was almost easy. Figuring out the puzzles with the heat orbs was a touch annoying, as was fighting a giant ice fiend, but at least nothing there looked familiar — and she was much better at fire spells now.

Even so, fighting in the cold had been less-than-pleasant. Even as Teiran returned to the Dig Site, the frost had yet to melt off of her armour. She rooted around in her bag, digging out the thermos of curry Asmodeus had packed her that morning. 

She unscrewed the lid, waiting for the wave of demonic spice to waft forth and thaw her chilled extremities. 

Nothing interesting happened. She peered inside and, experimentally, tipped it upside down. 

The curry slid out in a solid, frozen block, hitting the ground with a heavy  _ thunk _ .

She sighed.  _ Bugger. If I’d known that would happen, I could have used it as a projectile against the ice demons…. _

She descended the temple excavation site, grumbling to herself as she rubbed the chilled numbness out of her hands. Azzanadra, still in his Dr. Nabanik disguise, approached her immediately. 

“You’ve returned!” He said, as warmly as someone in a non-frozen basement could say. “With the artefacts, I hope?”

Wordlessly, she handed the icon and the horn over. She’d learned, long ago, that asking people who told her to fetch such they why they couldn’t bloody well fetch those things themselves was at best fruitless, and at worst a threat to her continued job security. 

“I just have one more thing I need,” Dr. Nabanik said. “It’s not nearly as difficult as the other two, fortunately — in fact, your contact should be just outside. I’d prefer he not see me, however.”

Teiran breathed a sigh of relief as she made her way up the winch. Fighting the Barrows and being half-frozen to death was enough adventure for one day. 

As she reached the surface, she realized she should have asked Azzanadra who exactly she should be looking for, when she spotted the black-clad, masked figure leaning against the winch. 

“Oh,” she said flatly. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

Even under the face-over, Teiran could see the assassin smirk. 

“You’re rather stupider than I thought, falling for that little ruse,” he said. “How does the saying go? Fool you once, shame on me, fool you twice —”

“And I kick you in the fruit and veg so hard that you sing like the parrot cage at the Ardougne zoo?” Teiran said. “I’m quite familiar with that, actually. Care for a practical demonstration?”

The assassin raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you an elegant one? Only to be expected from a person who considers beating zombies to death with a carved-up tree branch to be the equivalent of sneaking a weapon onto Entrana.”

“Oh, give it a rest,” she said with a scowl. “Do you want your dark god back or not?”

“Dark god? Me?” The masked man’s eyes widened. “The only dark god I bow down to is money.”

“Hmph. We can both relate to something, I suppose. Now hand over the thingie.”

“Certainly,” the assassin said, removing a lump of carved rock from his pocket. 

Without warning, he threw it towards her. “Catch!”

She caught it, wordlessly snatching it out of the air. “I don’t suppose you were paid a shipping and handling fee?” she said, dryly. “If you are, then whatever it is, you’re not worth it.

The assassin raised the other eyebrow. “Impressive. I’ll have to keep an eye on you.”

“If I ever see you again, I’m teleporting you sixty feet above the Frozen Plateau and leaving you to gravity,” she hissed. The masked man simply shrugged, turning to leave and disappearing into the chaos of the digsite.

She ducked underground, relic in hand, and made her way to the mahjarrat, wordlessly showing the rock in his hands.

Azzanadra’s eyes widened. “This is… the final piece,” he breathed. He traced over the star cut into the side, his brow furrowing into a scowl. 

“Cursed Saradominists!” he seethed. “Desecrating such an artifact with the symbol of an idiot god…”

Teiran suppressed a yawn. “Your followers need to get better at hiring mercenaries. The fellow upstairs is a real piece of work. Are you going to get a move-on, then, to whatever it is you need these for?”

Azzanadra grinned. “Oh, soon, the fruits of your labor shall be apparent.”

He crossed the excavated temple floor, towards the encircled cross in the center. On three of its corners he placed the item Teiran had brought — the horn, the icon and the relic — stood in the center, and raised his arms. 

“Oh, fortuitous day! The years I have waited!” he cried. “Accept these sacraments, Lord, as keystones to your might. We gather here that thou may gaze upon our insignificance, and take pity upon thy servants. We beseech thee, reach out to this plane, thy plane, and once again restore thy order, thy justice, and thy might.”

The air… shifted. Despite the fact that they were in a sealed basement, Teiran thought she could feel a draft drift from where the mahjarrat stood. It smelled of emptiness; of dust and sand and old forgotten rooms. 

Teiran felt her body tense. “Azzanadra?” she said. “What’s going on?”

The mahjarrat didn’t answer. Instead, Teiran watched as the artifacts around him glowed, a beam of light emitted from each of them that centered on a spot just before Azzanadra. 

She heard a sound not dissimilar from cotton ripping. A tear, for lack of a better word, opened in the middle of the air, fraying around the edges and containing nothing but purplish darkness within. Inside, something buzzed. 

“...zzaannaaa..rraaa…”

Teiran felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise. The air crackled and felt sticky; as she looked down, she could see static sparking in tiny arcs across the spikes in her dragon armour. 

“Are you sure this is the wisest thing to be doing?” she yelled.

“Be not afraid,” Azzanadra said. “The true Lord will favour you well, I am certain.”

The tear opened a little further, its purple glow reflecting off of Azzanadra’s face. The sound within still sounded like the buzzing of a thousand insects, but something different echoed in her head. 

“Azzanadra... have I found my faithful?” it said. 

Azzanadra grinned with mad glee. “My Lord Zaros! The link is finally restored!”

The voice crackled; the speaker seemed tired. “I did not... doubt your... dedication,” it sighed. “What of... your brothers?”

“Scattered, Lord, across the lands, while Zamorak maintains a stranglehold on the turncoats.”

“Azzanadra... your good work here... will have attracted attention.”

Azzanadra paused. “You are right, Lord. It won't be long before the whole world knows the link has been restored. We must move swiftly.”

“Come closer,” the voice whispered, growing fainter. “That I may give your instructions... which others must not know of.”

Azzanadra stepped forward, closer to the portal, and the voice dropped to a volume Teiran couldn’t detect. 

Elsewhere…

* * *

_ The dark mage’s eyes widened as the rift in front of him shifted; infernal energy crackled from the orb, bleeding like water from a leaking vessel. He uttered a curse as he attempted to contain it, wondering what had caused it to become so unbound so suddenly… _

_ Not much further, a statue of Zamorak by a certain captured temple rumbled and exploded, showered two bewildered dark monks with a coating of hot powdered marble… _

_ In a dark set of crypts beneath the muck of Morytania, a shadow stirred and shifted, as though curiously sniffing the air… _

_ And, in Ardougne, a soft rumble echoed through the city. The parrots in the zoo squawked and screamed; the sheep in the pens bleated uneasily, as something far below the earth seemed to turn. _

* * *

The portal, which had slowly begun to shrink, fizzled and disappeared, the space in which it manifested healing itself over. The crackle in the air disappeared; the ancient smell dissipated. 

Azzanadra bowed his head. “I have communed with my great lord… it has been too long. Oh fortuitous day!”

Teiran shook herself out of a shocked trance. “What,” she said, slowly, “in Guthix’s name was that?”

The mahjarrat smiled. “The start of something new and beautiful, adventurer.”

Teiran scowled. “I want nothing to do with it. Not gods, not mystic… whats-its. And I believe we had a deal.”

“Indeed. I am in your debt once again. And so your reward will be great.”

“Lucien. What do you know about him? And if you tell me the same schlock you did back in the pyramid, then I’m going to paint your damn altar green and make this place a temple to Brassica Prime.”

A flicker of anger crossed Azzanadra’s face. “I would not make threats so lightly, mortal.”

“And I don’t take late payments well. Dirt. Now.”

Azzanadra glowered. “He’s gathering an army in the north, certainly. I haven’t been able to pinpoint his location, but the amount of power that he’s accumulated is… becoming rather formidable. He seems to have raised a variety of creatures. Undead. Ice monsters, and otherwise. He may be seeking an alliance with his cousin Zeamouregal, but I have no definitive evidence of this.”

“But to what end?” Teiran asked. “He said he wanted to follow in the steps of Zamorak. And take over Gielinor in the process. Is he just stocking up for the big event?”

Azzanadra shook his head. “The ice creatures make me think he is preparing for something else. Namely, the ritual.”

“Ritual? As in, the one where you all figure out which one of you to kill?” she said, recalling her conversation with Jhallan. “But doesn’t that take place every five hundred years or something?”

“Approximately,” Azzanadra said. “Five hundred years have to pass at some point or another. And I have information enough that the time has come again. Our kind grow weaker, as well. Knowing Lucien, I predict this is where he would want to make his… grand debut, as it were.”

“Do you know exactly when it is?”

“No. Only that it approaches. And soon.”

“I’ll take ‘soon’ in the mortal sense,” she said. “Not in the, ‘I’ve lived for millenia and a century is is the equivalent of a long holiday weekend to me.’”

“You assume this correctly.”

“Great then. Thank you for the intel.” She turned. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of fire runes to buy. Have fun worshipping your god of whatever.”

“Teiran,” Azzanadra said. She turned. 

“I’m not helping you bring Zaros back,” she said. “That’s down to a matter of scheduling and personal philosophy.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you. Though I may attempt to change your mind in the future. Lucien — I assume you have a bone to pick with him?”

“If by bone, you mean ‘vendetta,’ then, yes. I do,” she said testily.

“For what reason is this? Is it personal?”

“I would think that a mahjarrat trying to annihilate the realm I live on would be personal enough,” she said. “He’s been nothing but trouble. And having anybody, megalomaniacal mage or not, possessing all-powerful wossnames probably isn’t healthy to existence as we know it.”

“Lucien is no grand strategist,” Azzanadra said. “But I would not underestimate him.”

“Oh,” Teiran said darkly. “Wouldn’t I know it.”

“I do not advise you confront him alone. Considering that I am still indebted to you, I offer my assistance.”

She turned away. “No. I don’t do alliances. Or clans. Or gangs. Or fellowships.”  _ They just end up pulling people into someone else’s problems. _

“Consider it a… tentative offer of help,” Azzanadra said. “I am inclined because of what you’ve done for me. And Lucien is a filthy Zamorakian. To punish those who helped the Great Betrayer is my perogative.”

“An enemy of my enemy isn’t my friend,” she said. “I’ve managed to hold my own against Lucien before.”

“‘Hold’ is different than ‘defeat.’ A mahjarrat is already formidable on their own. If he has accrued additional power, then you stand little chance. He could well turn you to dust where you stand.”

She clenched her fist. “I’m well aware.” 

“Consider it a… rain cheque, at least. I may not be your friend. But I am a source of raw power against him. One that I doubt you can afford to ignore.”

Teiran bit back another response. Though the rest of her seethed with anger, a smug little voice in the back of her head told her Azzanadra was right. 

“I’ll consider it a rain cheque, then,” she said, measuredly. “But only as a matter of necessity.”

She turned to leave again. As she grabbed the rope to the winch, she heard the mahjarrat yell out to her.

“He’s taken something hasn’t he?” he said. “That look in your eyes — it’s of vengeance. He’s laid a strike close to you.”

She turned her head away. “Not up for discussion,” she said. She climbed up the rope, leaving the temple behind her and ascending towards the light. 

* * *

She took the letter out again, like she did every night. It was starting to become a little worn at the edges, though she took care not to smudge or rub out the writing on the back. 

She stared at it a little longer than she usually did. 

“I’m getting closer,” she whispered. “Soon. Soon I can face him again. And I’ll make him pay. And then….”

She stopped. And then what? She’d feel better, of course. That’s what she told herself. Another threat to the world would be gone, and Cyrisus and the others would be avenged, and she could… move on. Feel like a normal person again. That’s what she wanted, right?

_ Of course that’s what I want, _ she told herself.  _ Who wouldn’t? It’s not like killing Lucien would bring him back. But I can make sure the mahjarrat can never hurt anyone again… _

Something in the back of her head told her that wouldn’t happen; that killing him would just be another useless coping mechanism. Killing Lucien  _ wouldn’t _ bring him back. Would anything? But wasn’t that what she really wished for?

Teiran pushed these thoughts to the side, instead thinking about the events of the day. Should she have taken Arhim’s robe top? She mightn’t have been a mage, but she could have gotten a good profit off of it in the Grand Exchange. Why was it in there, anyways? Arhim had been an illusion, hadn’t he? Or had he gone down that easily? Wizards weren’t known for the melee defense, after all….

She yawned. Maybe it was time to call it a day. She’d fought si— a bunch of wights, nearly froze half to death and may have inadvertently hearkened the return of an ancient dark god. 

_ No more fussing, _ she thought, as she blew out the candle by her bed.  _ Go to sleep. You can deal with all that tomorrow. _

As she drifted off, however, she couldn’t help but think, unesaily, of the shadows in the Barrows crypts.


	29. Jungle Troubles

Teiran kicked the charred body of the jungle horror over. Its face was a mask of terror; which was impressive, considering that’s what it looked like most of the time. If a jungle horror could feel fear, however, this one had.

“Hmmmm.” She leaned closer. She could see the point of impact on the monster’s chest, as though it had been hit with a ball of fire. From the size of it, it could have been a blast spell. 

“But how could a jungle horror,” she muttered, “be taken out by a single blast?”

Sir Tendeth shook his head. “It baffles me as well. This isn’t like any magic I’ve seen before.”

The Temple Knight next to her was still clad in pirate attire, though the fake mustache was already beginning to peel. _When I get back from this mission, I need to tell Sir Tiffy to work on the disguise department,_ she thought. _Big time._

She straightened up. “What did the other pirates say?”

“They described it like some sort of god-level plague,” he said. “Fire raining from the sky. An inferno of doom. One of them claimed he saw a full-on dragon.”

Teiran shook her head. “It couldn’t have been. For one thing, the blast mark is too small. And anything the size of a dragon would have knocked half the buildings down.”

Could it have been a demon? No, the monks of Harmony Island would have noticed from a mile away. Undead and fire didn’t mix, so it couldn’t have been the work of Rabid Jack...

She scanned the greenery around her. Jungle horrors lumbered about, seemingly unaware of the danger that had turned one of their brethren into a lump of greenish charcoal. The air was thick and damp; no wind stirred. Other than the movements of the jungle monsters, she could hear nothing.

She stiffened. Nothing. It rang in her ears. No buzzing of insects, no monkeys hooting, no birds squawking.

The wind shifted, ever so slightly. With it, she caught a whiff of burning vegetation. 

“Sir Tendeth,” she said, quietly as she could. “We need to move.”

He tensed. “What’s wrong?”

In the distance, she heard a roar. It was getting closer. 

“Run.”

The knight bolted, just as a ball of heat and flame came roaring from the sky. Teiran threw herself to the side as the fire hit Sir Tendeth straight on. The knight barely had time to yelp before he was incinerated — the body burned to a crisp in seconds, crumbling as it hit the jungle floor. 

Teiran sprinted to the cover of a nearby tree, dodging jungle horrors along the way. _Shit! Shit!_ She hadn’t thought to take a teleport scroll or any runes — _stupid!_ — and whatever had lobbed the fireball would almost certainly spot her if she ran for the gate. 

She looked back, her heart racing. Something was flapping over the trees; too small to be a dragon, too big to be a bird. She couldn’t make out what it was from between the palm leaves. 

She glanced back to the pile of charcoal that was once Sir Tendeth. _Poor bugger. With a name like that, you really ought to have become a banker._

She looked again. Whatever was above her roared — a sound not dissimilar to a dragon, but somehow screechier. She then heard a popping noise, as another fireball rained down from above. It hit a bush ten feet away from her, blasting it into a smoking stump.

_I need to move,_ she thought frantically. _And I need to move with the tree cover._

She looked to the east. The fireballs weren’t coming in quick succession; they must have a recharge, she realized. If she timed it right, then she could stay hidden and make her way to the rum distillery. 

Situating oneself among heavy concentrations of alcohol in the midst of an onslaught of fireballs was probably imprudent. Then again, she didn’t have any better bloody ideas. 

She waited for the next fireball, which struck a section of wall five feet away. A chorus of piratical curses rose from the other side. 

_Now._ Teiran sprinted for the next tree, as the creature above screeched angrily. A fireball exploded behind her as she skidded under the safety of the next palm, and she smelled something burning. 

_That was close._ The top of her head felt unusually warm. With a panicked yelp, she snatched her hat from the top of her head and frantically patted a small fire that had started on the top. 

“You bastards!” she yelled. The cavalier was a little singed, but otherwise mercifully intact. 

She put the hat back on and focused on the next tree. As another fireball whizzed by she ran, leaping over a dense patch of jungle brush as she did so. 

_What in RuneScape is that thing?_ She thought, as she watched the blast hit a giant mosquito, which summarily exploded. _A giant toucan with a fire battlestaff? A vulture with some coal-tar and a bad temper?_

She dashed for the next tree, barely escaping another blast of fire again. Whatever it was up there was getting increasingly frustrated. The time between attacks was definitely getting shorter.

_Almost there._ She could see the brewery just ahead. Fancy Dan was huddled under the doorframe to the blue team entrance, eyeing the sky suspiciously. 

_If I aim right…_ She crouched, readying herself for a mad dash to the door. _C’mon, c’mon…_

A fireball erupted in front of her, hitting the side of the building. Fancy Dan leapt back with a yelp and an oath, as he attempted to stamp out a fire that had formed on the floor of the lobby.

_Shit. I’ll have to try for the other side._ She veered around the building, hugging the wall before situating herself under another palm. 

Honest Jimmy was huddling under a small table, looking vaguely annoyed.

“There’s not a game for another twenty minutes, guv,” he said, as she squinted at the sky above. 

“I’m not here to make rum, you git!” she hissed. “Do you have any idea what that thing shooting fireballs is?”

He shrugged. “Looked like a giant bat to me,” he said. “I wouldn’t stop here. You’re in bat country.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve been drinking too much of the stuff. Is San Fan on the other side?”

He nodded. “Last I saw her, she was waving a katana at the sky and yelling something about fire-breathing sky orphans…”

“Ok. I’m going to make a run for it.” She tensed again, waiting for the next attack to come. 

It never did. Instead, she heard a roar from above, and the sound of something flapping off to the east. Then, something heavy landed in the sand, and she heard a set of raspy voices.

_I should make a break for it,_ she thought. However, horrified curiosity got the better of her. She crept towards the sound of the voice, ducking behind trees and brush. 

As she got closer, she could see three figures on the beach. They were humanoid.. Ish. They stood on two legs, at least. Their faces were definitely rather reptilian, however. The giant, leathery wings were also hard to miss. 

Something about them seemed familiar. Where had she seen them before? Something involving a panther, and a mighty hero….

Realization hit her like a trip to Braindeath Island. “ _Dragonkin_?” she whispered. 

The creatures seemed to be arguing. The one on the right, which was wearing a reddish robe, pawed the ground angrily.

“Grah! The rage subsides for now,” he growled. “Destruction always eases the pain.”

The one in the middle, clad in purple, hissed. “Yet the rage continues to build. Someone must still be using it.”

_It?_ Teiran thought. _What are they talking about?_

The one on the far left, dressed in green, nodded in agreement. “Then we should attack an area of greater population. Mass destruction will ease the pain.”

Teiran grabbed the trunk of the tree she hid behind. _Shit. If they get loose in a larger city, it’ll be the Falador Massacre all over again…_

The first Dragonkin continued. “I agree, brother. But we must also continue our search — we must find the False User.”

The other two nodded. Without another word, they took off, flapping away to the west and kicking up a cloud of sandy dust. 

Teiran coughed, emerging from behind the tree. She heard San Fan curse in the distance, as the chemical smell of burning alcohol began to rise in the air. 

_I need to report this to Sir Tiffy,_ she thought, as she rushed past the burning distillery back over to the pirate settlement. _What did they mean by ‘It?’ Who’s the false user?’_

As these thoughts raced through her head, and as she dashed over to the bank for a set of teleport runes to Falador, she felt her right hand begin to sting. 

* * *

“Are you sure about this, old bean?” Sir Tiffy Cashien asked. In the background, Lady Table bustled around the library, searching shelves and muttering to herself.

Teiran tapped her fingers on the table. “I’m positive.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I’ve heard of the dragonkin before,” she said. “It’s said that Robert the Strong used to fight them. I had a picture book when I was five.”

The Temple Knight raised an eyebrow. “You’re drawing inference from a children’s story?”

Teiran narrowed her eyes. “Well, unless you have some intel about a new breed of giant vulture that knows how to use fire runes, then it’s a best a guess as I have.”

Lady Table slammed a tome down in front of her. “Your dossier,” she said dryly. “While on the topic of fairy tales, would you like any books about the Reprehensible Snowgere? Maybe the muspah? Or the Lake Crystalmere Monster?”

Teiran picked up the notes, scowling. “I’ll have you know that muspahs are quite real. Just ask a Fremmenik named Erjolf. And the jury is still out on the existence of Cryssie!”

Sir Tiffy bobbed his head affably. “Perhaps we shall turn to the matter at hand?”

The two women broke off from their staring contest. Teiran scanned over the notes, which were scribbled and scanty. 

“There’s not much here,” she said. “It says they’re a bunch of boney dragon-people who burn things for fun.”

Lady Table snatched at a rather old-looking bit of parchment from the pile. “Strange,” she said, reading it over. 

“What about it?”

“I’m not sure what to make of this,” she said. “It says, ' _To learn the secrets of the dragonkin, the stonetoucher must first take the collar from my reincarnation. On it is the code to the plane of Kethsi and the key to the puzzle once she gets there. — Robert the Strong_.’”

Teiran listened carefully. “Stonetoucher?”

“Can you make anything of it?”

“Ye-es,” she said, a strange feeling creeping up her spine. “I have a feeling it might refer to me.”

“How so, old girl?” Sir Tiffy said. “Are you rather into tactile mining?”

“No. I’m not even sure what that means. I think the note is referring to the Stone of Jas,” Teiran said, unconsciously rubbing her right palm. “I touched it back in the Lumbridge Caves. When I did, I saw something… I think it had to do with the dragonkin.”

“If that’s the case,” Lady Table said, “what of the reincarnation? Is he a priest?”

“No, worse,” Teiran huffed. “He’s a cat. Bob the Cat, in fact.”

A strange look crossed the archivist’s face. “Robert the Strong… slayer of dragons, hero to many, mighty warrior and fighter… he’s a cat?”

“He is now,” Teiran said. “Unfortunately.”

“I… erm…” Lady Table stuttered. “Well, alright then.”

Teiran sighed, getting up from the table. “I’ll go and find Bob and get the collar. It’ll probably take me a day, though. I need to make… preparations.”

“What kind of preparations?” Sir Tiffy said. “Is he a particularly fearsome beast?”

“No, unless you leave him around some nice curtains. It’s more because of me. I’m allergic to cats.”

“Really? But haven’t you worked with them before?” Sir Tiffy said. “That whole business in the desert, and such?”

“Yes, well, I happened to annoy Sumona a little too much and she sicced a curse on me, ok?” she snapped. “So now if I’m so much as within 10 feet of one, I sneeze like crazy and get all red and puffy. It’s dreadful. I haven’t been able to visit the Sorceress’ Garden in months because of Del-Monty.”

“Very well then,” Sir Tiffy said. “Do try and get the collar as soon as you can.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your shirt on.” She shifted through her pack for some law runes. “Now if you'll excuse me, I need to stop by Ardougne.”

* * *

Bob rubbed himself up against a fencepost. Around him, Burthorpe bustled, as guards shouted archaic orders to each other, and as the assorted citizenry did their best to stay out of their way. 

_All this muss and fuss,_ he thought to himself, scratching his ear. _Humans are so funny. Always trying to get from something stupid to nothing at all. And here’s me, getting ready for my sixteenth nap of the day. Ha! They should learn to take a break._

A figure approached. It was clad in dragon armour, a formidable sight in and of itself. Its face, however, was even more bizarre. It wore a dark brown leather mask, eyes concealed by two glass lenses, and its mouth and nose covered by a beak-like protrusion. As it breathed, air wheezed from the filter in the front.

The Burthorpe villagers gave the figure a wide berth. Bob, however, let out a happy chirp and made a beeline to it, rubbing up against its legs. 

“Hello!” He purred. “Do you need directions to West Ardougne?”

“No, Bob,” Teiran said muffledly. “Can you not do that? I don’t want to have to buy another set of platelegs.”

“Mmm? Do what?” Bob scratched his head on one of the dragon armour’s spines. 

Teiran sighed. “Never mind. Look, I need your collar.”

He stopped scratching. “What for? It doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s not for me!” she snapped. “I need it to find out about the dragonkin. Your predecessor left me a note.”

“Oh! Well then. That changes things.” He sat down and began to wash himself. “It’s all yours… after you do me a favour.”

“What do you want?” She asked, exasperated. “Don’t tell me you need some mahogany logs.”

“There’s this one itchy spot. Right near my tail. I can’t quite get it, and Unferth never hits it right. Could you scratch it for me?”

“Fine.” She reached over and scratched him, praying that her dragon gloves would serve as enough protection against the hair.

“Ooooh… yeah… mmm… right there…. Just like that….” Bob purred. “Yeah, keep that up for, mmmm, another twenty minutes or so….”

She snatched her hand away. “No.”

“Oh, fine,” he groaned. He wrestled his collar off. “Here you go. And when the King of Misthalin gives you a medal for saving the world from the dragonkin, don’t forget to mention me!”

Teiran took the collar, holding it as far away from her as possible. “Yeah. Sure,” she said. _I’ll get Marianne to give this a wash. That should take care of most of the fur._

“Ta ta for now, adventurer!” Bob said, walking away. “Be sure to stop by and visit without the gas mask!”

_Yeah,_ she thought, as she felt her eyes begin to water. _That’s got a snowball’s chance in the Smoke Dungeon._

* * *

Teiran pulled the mask off with a wet slurp. _How can anyone as snobby and graceful as an elf subject themselves to this thing?_ she thought, as she wiped the sheen of sweat off her forehead. It was half a second later that she realized she’d used the same hand to pet Bob. 

“ _Achoo!_ Ah, hell.”

As quickly as she could, she wrestled out of her armour, thankful for the relative privacy of Cy— _her_ garden.

Marianne materialized with a laundry basket. “Shall I put this in the clay kiln, miss?” the maid said, hefting up the dragon plate.

“Please.” Teiran’s nose was starting to swell, and she internally cursed Sumona and her temper. “You can just burn the mourner mask. It’s probably a biohazard by now.”

“Certainly, miss,” Marianne said, collecting the rest of the armour. “I’ll—”

She looked up, and her eyes widened. “Miss! Your hair!”

“What about it?” Teiran asked. She ran her fingers through it. “I mean, it’s not like I got it cut or any— oh.” 

The dragonkin’s fire had done more than singe her hat: it had also burned off a good chunk of her hair. While it had been mercifully tied up at the time, thus mitigating the damage, it still looked about two inches shorter. “Bugger. Oh, well. Nothing a shower and a quick clip can’t fix.”

Marianne nodded, a touch reproachfully. “I’ll run the hot water, miss. It’s a shame that happened.”

Teiran inspected the singed ends. “Eh, it’s no big deal. I was getting split ends anyways.”

* * *

The shower cleaned out her sinuses, and washed away the sweat and soot and cat hair and various bits of jungle vegetation she’d managed to accumulate. Now Teiran stood in front of the somewhat-clouded mirror, her hair in one hand and a dragon dagger in the other.

She carefully sawed through a hunk of blonde curls, letting the singed ends fall onto a bit of sackcloth she’d laid out. It was really only about a couple of inches, she reflected. Even so, it was still a little shorter than she was used to. 

She worked her way around the singed parts, doing her best to even out the cut where she could. When she finished, her hair reached her jawline — albeit a little lopsidedly. 

It felt… weird, looking at herself in the mirror like that. She looked different. The few months had definitely drained her. The fight with the tormented demons had earned her a new scar on her left shoulder, a shiny burn that had never fully healed. Her eyes had dark circles under them — despite the fact, at Marianne’s bequest, she’d been getting more than five hours of sleep each night. 

She rubbed her eyes. Gods, why did she look so _tired_? Was it the anger? Was it that fact that sleep didn’t seem to fully rest her? Was it just all the running around?

She turned away from the mirror and wrapped up the sackcloth, tying it shut and dropping it in the bin. Then she exited the bathroom, padding over to her bed and landing on it with a hard flop.

What in the Abyss had she gotten herself into? It always started small. Someone mentioned a monument to Guthix. A simple Temple Knight mission.

Deciding she needed some pure essence for astral runes that one day…

How long ago had that been? It felt like forever. She mentally counted back. Nearly a year now. They’d had about ten months together. Ten months from finding him in a cave on Lunar Isle, to… well, all that. 

And it had been three months since then. Shouldn’t she move on? But moving on felt, in a twisted way, like a betrayal. Even calling the place she was living in now _her_ house felt like a lie. Bank documents be damned, it would always be his home. 

She sighed, and absentmindedly hugged her pillow. _You need to focus,_ she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. _You need to think with your brain. At least, the part of your brain that can think, and not the sad bits. Tomorrow, you’ll be chasing around dragonkin. And to do that, you need sleep._

Still, as she blew the candle out and settled under the blanket, she put away such thoughts with a pang of sadness.


	30. Kethsi

Kethsi was cold. 

That was her first impression as she teleported in, the glimmer of fairy magic fading away in the dull, dark air. 

It wasn’t the biting cold of the Frozen Plateau, mind you, or the frosty crispness of the Land of Snow. It was the coolness of passivity, like an empty house left uninhabited and unheated. It was the cold of empty rooms; it was the cold of something that had died. 

“Hello!” she called. Teiran’s voice echoed throughout the ruins, punctuated only by the lapping of water. She scanned her surroundings; wherever she was, it was a small island, it seemed. Parts of ruined buildings stuck out from the ground like dead trees. Even the water itself seemed lifeless and stale, coloured a sickly green by the stagnant sky above.

She walked slowly, her boots sinking into the muck as she went. The island was eerily silent; the air was still. 

“What happened to this place?” she said to herself. She glanced back at the fairy ring she’d teleported in from, half-afraid that it had disappeared into the mud. However, it remained. 

It took her about half an hour of poking around to find the wall design. While the blocky stone pattern carved into the wall made no sense to her, the collar-shaped indentation below it did.

As she fitted Bob’s collar into the recess, a stone drawer popped out from the bottom part, nearly bashing her in the knee. She leaped back with a yelp, before overcoming her initial surprise and peering at the items within. 

She picked up the first note and read it, her face twisting in confusion. She picked up the second one and read half of it before giving up. 

“And I thought talking to Aris was bad enough,” she said, pocketing the chronologically muddled messages. “Those are a problem for future me.”

She picked up the next item, which turned out to be a stone arm, broken off of something at the shoulder. The next was a stone carving in the shape of a tetrahedron; carved, Teiran saw, to fit with three others of its type. 

She glanced around the ruins. If she squinted right, she could see how if she jumped from  _ that _ ledge to  _ that _ spire and attached the arm to  _ that _ statue and jumped again….

Teiran sighed. “Well, I guess I’m in for a little exercise,” she said. She looked down at the carving. “And puzzles.”

* * *

It took a wretched hour and a half of climbing, squeezing, leaping, mining, cursing, fiddling with a weird sextant-compass-protactor-thing, falling into the muck far too many times, and digging before she found and accessed the ruined library; even as she stood in the cool, dry dark, surrounded by ancient books and a sense of unease, she still felt restless. 

“What am I even looking for here?” she muttered, tracing her hand over the rows of spines. Some of the titles she couldn’t even read; they were covered in archaic runes, or too faded to even make out. 

She grabbed a title at random and flipped through it. It was filled with pictures of strange plants, painstakingly drawn and coloured. It seemed to be a farming guide of some sort. “Nope.”

Teiran put it back on the shelf, grabbing another tome. This one was a novel; as she flicked the pages, she could see an illustration of a knight fighting a griffin. 

That one was summarily returned to the shelf as well. The next book was an incomprehensible set of war accounts; the one after that, trade records… 

_ Hmmm. This one has people on the cover, at least, _ she thought as she inspected the next book.  _ ‘The Fusty Kethsian Wench’? Well, it might be something… _

She read a couple of random pages in the middle. When she reached a certain passage, her face turned scarlet.  _ Oh. _

She slammed the book shut and tossed it over her shoulder.  _ Definitely nope.  _

She kept pulling books at random, growing more frustrated and frantic with each rejection. Astronomy, sailing, horrifying squid-things, a cookbook…

_ Argh. Will I have to go through the whole damn collection? Is there even anything useful in here? _ She grabbed a scroll from the shelf, impatiently unfurling it and skimming over it.

To her surprise, she could recognize the runes inscribed on it. “Lunar Magic?” She said aloud. “Lune — wait, no, that’s a T,  _ Tune _ Banite Ore. Hmmm.”

She pocketed the spell, figuring it could be useful, before moving onto the next book in the row. 

This one had no title, or even much of a proper binding; in fact, it was more a set of notes loosely bundled in a book cover. As she traced her fingers over the edges, she could see the pages were singed.

Delicately as she could, she flipped it open, and read the hastily-scrawled words at the top of the first page.  _ My name is Dathana… _

She scanned over the text, a bizarre wave of relief washing over her as she spotted the word  _ dragonkin. _

_ Finally, _ she thought.  _ Something useful. _

She read on, Blah, blah, elder mage, expedition, World Gate…

Wait. Great Stone? No. It couldn’t be. 

She kept reading. Dragonkin attacks, great spell…. Her eyes paused on one passage. 

_...it became apparent that every time we used the great stone, the dragonkin grew more powerful, more enraged, more violent… _

She slammed the book shut, her thoughts reeling. The dragonkin… their eyes had been full of fire and fury… their roars had been full of pain…

She  _ had _ seen them before the incident on Mos Le’Harmless; not in a child’s book, but in the visions swimming through her head when she’d touched the Stone of Jas.

They were after it, she realized.

And Lucien still had it. 

Teiran stuffed the book in her backpack and sprinted out of the library, up the stairs and over the dead, mist-covered plane. Her boots sloshed through the muck, and she paused only to scrabble in her bag for a handful of runes. 

She teleported as she ran, the splash of her last footfall echoing throughout the empty, devastated island. 

* * *

Teiran hit the ground running as she landed in Falador, heading straight for the park before she even materialized fully. 

Sir Tiffy Cashien was at his usual spot, and she nearly vaulted over the park gate as she sprinted towards him, nearly barreling over a young girl wielding a wooden sword and chasing a pair of screaming boys. 

The knight turned at her approach. “Hello, there old b—”

“Dragonkin,” she panted.

“Yes? What about them?”

She took a moment to catch her breath, gulping in air. “They’re after it,” she said. “The Stone of Jas.”

Sir Tiffy’s eyes widened. “Are you sure about that, old girl?”

She handed him the journal. “I found this on Kethsi — it’s where Bob’s collar sent me. It’s on some other plane or something. Totally ruined by the Dragonkin. Everyone who lived there is dead. They thought using the stone lured them there.”

Tiffy took the journal and flipped through it. The more he read, the more the furrows in his forehead increased.

“If this is true,” he said, closing the book as though he were handling a bomb, “then we haven’t a moment to lose.” He leapt up with surprising dexterity for an old man. “I’ll contact the others.”

Teiran felt a tap on her shoulder. She whirled around, halfway ready to punch whoever did so, and saw Wyson standing behind her.

“Excuse me,” the gardener said. “May I have a word with you about certain damages to my lawn?”

Teiran didn’t reply. Instead, she reached into her bag and handed Wyson a large sack of gold. 

“Keep the change,” she said.

The gardener looked like he was about to say something, but he then saw her expression. His face paled and, without a word, he turned and absconded.

Teiran looked over to Sir Tiffy. “I assume you’re going to fetch Idria and Thaerisk.”

The knight nodded. “We’ll meet in Falador Castle.”

“Great. Mind if I take a guest?”

“If you think they could be a help.”

“Trust me. She will.” Teiran dug around in her bag, and pulled out a set of astral runes. “Now if you excuse me, I have a call to make.”

* * *

Akrisae pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger.

“And what, pray tell, are these dragonkin exactly?” he asked. 

“Big horrible flappy things,” Teiran said. “With the temper of Surok Magis, the firepower of a dwarf multicannon with fishing explosive for ammo, and the impulse control of a sugar-addled toddler.”

Akrisae paled. “Saradomin help us,” he murmured, crossing himself. 

“And they’re after the stone?” Idria said, taking a seat next to Thaerisk.

Teiran nodded. “Specifically, anyone who’s using it. When I saw them on Mos Le’Harmless, they talked about a ‘false user,’ which probably refers to anyone besides the owner. Who, I would guess, is Jas, whoever the hell that is.”

Thaerisk seemed to contemplate this. “We know Lucien has the Stone,” he said. “And we know that every time he uses it, the dragonkin seem to grow in power. If they’ve been attacking settlements directly, then the mahjarrat must be increasing his reliance on it.”

“Doesn’t that absolve itself, then?” Idria said. “Lucien has the Stone. They’re after Lucien. They find him and dispose of him, and make sure nothing else uses it. They may actually be a force in our favour.”

Teiran shook her head. “They may be able to put up a fight with the mahjarrat,” she said, “but the word ‘collateral damage’ doesn’t seem to be in their vocabulary. I’ve seen what happened on Kethsi — even if the dragonkin did take out Lucien, they’d probably take out Gielinor with him.”

Akrisae drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “This is highly unusual. We’ve had no word or intel on Lucien for months, and now this?” He turned around in his chair and eyed the woman leaning against the wall behind him. “And I don’t see how your inclusion in all this is at all necessary!”

Kuradal, who had been cleaning her fingernails with an obsidian knife, raised an eyebrow. “I have a right to my vengeance,” she said. “And I would happen to be an expert in big, flappy, fire-breathing things. Moreso than you, I would believe.”

Akrisae glowered at her for a moment before turning back to the table. 

“In any case,” he said, slowly, “it is an issue we cannot allow to persist. Or one that we can make any hasty movements on. We don’t have any idea where Lucien even is — much less the firepower to face him.”

“Perhaps I can be of help?” A voice said from the door. 

Everyone in the room moved at once. Teiran leapt up, whip ready. Kuradal summoned a windstorm in her hands. Idria pulled out a crossbow as Thaerisk prepared a vine spell. Akrisae began to pray, divine power glowing around him. 

The figure stepped forward. “This is quite a greeting.”

Teiran lowered her whip. “Ali the Wise? What are you doing here?”

Akrisae held up a ball of flame. “Stand down!” He yelled. “One shout, and you’ll be surrounded by White Knights!”

“Oh, shush, I know him,” Teiran said, putting down her weapon. “He’s from Nardah. And happens to know quite a lot about mahjarrat.” She gave the mystic a hard look. “Incidentally. How were you able to find us? What are you here for, anyways?”

“I do apologize for the intrusion. The matter I must report on is quite urgent,” Ali said, ignoring the first question. “The Ritual of the Mahjarrat approaches. I have seen it in the stars.”

Teiran tensed. “When? Az— I mean, Dr. Nabanik said it was soon, but he couldn’t tell me anything specific.”

“The boy is correct, if inexact,” Ali said. “It is, indeed, soon. Tomorrow, in fact. When the sun reaches its zenith.”

Everyone in the room fell silent. Kuradal’s wind spell fizzled out. Idria lowered her bow. Even Akrisae let the fire in his hands die.

“Well.” Teiran said. “Shit.”

* * *

Teiran paced the room angrily, looking for some way — any way — to burn the sudden energy that now boiled within her. 

The others were in various stages of planning and argument. Ali the Wise stood by the table, seemingly deep in conversation with Thaerisk. Idria was poring over a pile of papers, occasionally consulting the journal from Kethsi. Kuradal simply watched the room, her eyes locked warily on Ali.

“Lucien’s going to be far more powerful than last time,” Teiran said. “Throwing a bunch of human warriors at him like last time would be as good as tossing a bunch of kindling on the fire.”

Akrisae shook his head. “What choice do we have? If anything, Gielinor is in more danger than last time. If we face him tomorrow, he won’t be alone — he’ll be surrounded by mahjarrat.”

Thaerisk broke away from his conversation with Ali, and nodded. “Indeed. We’d be facing a snake, surrounded by vipers.”

“Then make the vipers work for you,” Ali the Wise said. 

Teiran stopped pacing. “What do you mean?” 

The desert sage stroked his beard thoughtfully. “There are mahjarrat at the ritual who have reason to oppose Lucien. Azzanadra, whom I believe you know of. Sliske, perhaps. Though he is considerably difficult to track down…”

Akrisae slammed his hand down on the table. “By Saradomin’s gaze, I will not allow it!” He bellowed. “Dragonkin or no, I will not consort with a race bent on destruction and the worship of an evil god!”

Teiran took a deep breath, willing herself not to shout. 

“We don’t have much of a choice,” she said. “The more Lucien uses the Stone, the more powerful the dragonkin become. If we leave it as it is, we might end up with a fight on the level of the God Wars.”

Akrisae shook his head. “We wouldn’t be facing him alone. We have an army of Temple Knights. If we ally with the mahjarrat, they would sooner betray us than aid us.”

He turned to Kuradal. “What say you, slayer master? Would you want to team up with the filth that killed your father?”

Kuradal narrowed her eyes. “Do not attempt a ploy on my emotions, priest,” she spat. “I have as little love for the mahjarrat as you do. But if we are to risk the lives of others, it would be fool not to seek strength where you may find it.”

She looked to Teiran. “I trust your judgement in this,” she said. “I myself am only after Lucien’s head. You, as well, I’m sure. How that will come to pass remains to be seen. However, if you are to navigate around the other mahjarrat, I say the fewer weapons aimed at us, the better.”

Everyone was looking at Teiran now. Akrisae angrily; Idria and Thaerisk expectantly, and Kuradal cooly. Ali the Wise was expressionless. 

_ Why are you all looking to me? _ She thought.  _ I’m not a bloody battle strategist. The biggest army I’ve ever led turned into a giant fuckup. The best I can do is kill things and find stuff. _

She took a breath. 

“This might be the last chance we’ve got to confront Lucien,” she said. “But I refuse to put any more lives on the line than we have to. I’ll risk my own life recruiting mahjarrat and getting the Stone back. If we want to have any sort of shot against him, then we need all the help we can get.”

Akrisae said nothing for a moment, before letting out a heavy sigh. 

“I suppose,” he said, reluctantly, “that you are perhaps… correct. I dislike this, of course. But if you are willing to put your life on the line attempting this course of action, then I have no choice but to concede to it.”

Teiran bit back a rebuke.  _ Just be glad he’s agreeing to it at all, _ she told herself. 

And then he added: “We are speaking about the fate of RuneScape, after all. And then needs of the many outweigh the needs of the f—”

_ WHAM. _ Teiran slammed her hands down in front of the priest, her knuckles white. She had no weapon raised but the effect was the same. Her eyes were filled with fury, and her body telegraphed killing intent. 

“Say that again,” she said, softly. “Say it to my face. I dare you to.”

Her entire body was tense, like a tripwire; taut. Tight. Ready to snap. 

_ Go on. Give me an excuse. Gods know I’ve been more than civil this entire damn time. Say it like you mean it, you sniveling little weasel.  _

Akrisae opened his mouth, and his eyes met hers. “I…” He said. “I misspoke. We should avoid risking lives necessarily, of course. And those lives cannot be quantified.”

They stared at each other for another minute. Teiran forced herself to unclench her fists. 

“We’re done here, then,” she said, stepping back from the table. “You prepare your forces. I’ll prepare mine.”

She turned to Ali the Wise. “Do you have an idea where the ritual will be exactly? I know it’s in the north, though exact coordinates would be helpful.”

He nodded. “I can direct you there. It would be prudent to scout it out beforehand.”

“Fine. I’ll do that myself. I can meet you in Nardah to talk more planning.”

She turned and began to leave, her nails digging into her palms as she did her best not to sprint out of the room. 

“Teiran!” Idria called out. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t even stop to reply. 

“To cash a rain cheque.”


	31. Waterfall

Azzanadra was praying when Teiran arrived. Still in his Dr. Nabanik guise, he was kneeling before the altar in Sennestien and uttering some ancient hymn that she couldn’t make out.

She waited for him to finish. As he did, he rose.

“Human,” he greeted. “I assume you’re not here to prostrate yourself before the shrine of my lord?”

“Has this been converted to a temple for Brassica Prime?” 

Azzanadra wrinkled his nose. “You’d worship a cabbage over Zaros?”

“No. I wouldn’t worship anything,” she said. “You know why I’m here.”

“The ritual approaches.”

“Yes. Ali the Wise told me. And I…”

She trailed off, unwilling to say it. Azzanadra raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve come to make good of my obligation to you,” he said. 

“That’s a fancy way of putting it. But yes. Lucien…” she paused. “He’s not something we can handle alone. He’s got two god-level artifacts to his name, and he’s been using them on a daily basis for the past three months. He’s hard enough to fight on his own. But with those on hand….”

“Two artifacts, you say?” Azzanadra said, seating himself in a wicker chair. “I’m aware that Lucien has the Staff of Armadyl. But what of the other one?”

“It’s the Stone of Jas,” Teiran said. “Used to imbue life into creation. Or something.”

“It sounds powerful.”

“It is,” she said, clenching her right hand. “Mind-bogglingly, body-scorchingly powerful.”

“Hmmm.” He leaned forward. “It sounds like you know of it. First-hand, it seems.”

She looked to the side. “In a sense.”

“ _Hmmmmm_.” He leaned back again. “That changes things. It makes them more interesting, for a start.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“Of course. My debt to you still stands — and I would not be one to renege on it.” He stood up from the chair and, for some reason, began to examine the ornamental lamps hanging by the altar.

“What about the other mahjarrat?” Teiran asked. “Would they be willing to help? Or at least convinced not to try and kill us while they’re there?”

“You’d be wanting aid from the Zarosians, then,” he said, taking down one of the lamps and peering at the light within. “Let me think — do you know what has become of Jhallan?”

“He’s frozen in a block of ice under the ritual site. He used to look like a muspah, though I think he’s back to his usual form.”

“So he’s indisposed, then,” Azzanadra said. “Hmmm. Sliske may prove to be an ally, but he is… fickle. And I haven’t heard from him in centuries.”

He thought for a moment. “Wahisietel? Perhaps. Though he, too, keeps to himself… and Akthanakos will most likely be embroiled in his own conflict…”

The mahjarrat gave a sad shrug. “Our options are limited, if we have any at all. It is as I said to Zaros; our numbers have thinned, and we have been scattered by the winds across this land.”

“Getting help from you, at least, would be better than nothing,” she said.

He handed her a lamp. “My time in the pyramid has weakened me, unfortunately,” he said. “Though the Empty Lord may aid us.”

“Erm. How, exactly?” She examined the lamp she was holding. Like the goblin lamps down in the swamp caves, it burned without flame; however, strangely, the light seemed to glow with a darker edge, if that were even possible.

“Zaros’ power remains mostly limited to this temple,” Azzanadra said. “However, I have been storing his divine energy in these beacons in the time since I made contact with him. If you place these around the ritual site, then his power may be directed at Lucien.”

“You know, I’ve heard of people putting away spare change in a jar for a rainy day,” she said bemusedly. “But godly power? That’s a new one.”

“The Empty Lord sees to us in our time of need,” the mahjarrat said. “I would suggest you make your preparations soon — I do not know how early the others will arrive for the ritual.”

“I plan on going up early tomorrow morning,” she said. “That should give me enough time.”

“Very well.” He handed over the remaining three lamps. “Handle these with care. And try to avoid taking these into any other religious temples or buildings — I do not know what reactions the conflicting divine energies may have.” 

“Ok,” she said. _I’ll have to keep that in mind if I ever want to see the Chaos Tunnels or Entrana explode._

“One more thing,” she said, as Azzanadra turned back to the altar.

“Yes?”

“I don’t care what methodology you use,” she said. “Zarosian curses, Ancient Magicks, whatever. But Lucien is mine. Weaken him, smite him, whatever. But the final kill belongs to Kuradal and me.”

“Hmmmm,” the mahjarrat said. “I was correct in assuming that your motivations are, perhaps partly, personal?”

She didn’t reply. Azzanadra continued. 

“Deny it all you’d like. I can see the desire for vengeance in your eyes.”

“How?”

“I know it well,” he said, his tone suddenly grim. “But I will say no more about it. I will not stand in the way of your revenge, human. I would only hope it does not prove to be your undoing. I’ve grown somewhat fond of you.”

Teiran’s face screwed up in confusion. “.... Why?”

“You intrigue me,” he said. “And you amuse me, despite your threats to turn this sacred place into a shrine for a heathen cabbage god.”

* * *

By the time Teiran managed to get the details of the ritual site, plan out the scouting mission, and obtain certain organ-related assets from Ali the Wise, it had grown late. However, despite the practical agility course and a half she’d run on Kethsi, and the other activities of the day, she didn’t even feel tired. Instead, she was tense. 

She took the long way to Ardougne, hoping that the trek would tire her out, at least. As she walked in the dying light through Al-Kharid, she held the canopic container Ali had given her and regarded it with a certain pity. 

“You poor bastard,” she said, holding it as steadily as she could. “You defend all of Varrock, sacrifice yourself heroically, and this is where you end up. A heart in a jar.”

She delicately placed the container in her bag. “That settles it. When I die, I’m asking for the Fremennik funeral.”

She closed her pack and wondered what Marianne would be making for dinner, trying her best not to think about tomorrow. A sudden buzz interrupted her thoughts, as the voice of the Lunar Isle support lady rang in her ears. 

“Call for you, dear,” the lady said. Teiran’s heart, unbidden, skipped a beat. 

“Who is it?”

“Someone named Kuradal. She seemed rather angry.”

“Oh. Connect me please,” she said, feeling her stomach sink. 

“Teiran,” she heard a voice say, almost too loudly. 

“Kuradal,” she replied. “What’s going on? Is it about the ritual tomorrow?”

“No. Roland’s missing.”

Teiran didn’t reply. Instead, she immediately dug in her pack for her Ferocious Ring and teleported to the Ancient Caverns. 

The slayer master was waiting at the entrance, her expression grim. “He’s not in his pen,” she said as a greeting. “I think he may have gotten out while I was in Falador.”

Teiran raced over to the juvenile dragon enclosure, stopping only to kick down the ladder and descend. The flock of young dragons were unusually demure; in fact, as she approached, they shrunk away, mewling pitifully and hugging the wall. 

“What’s wrong with them?” She asked. 

Kuradal shook her head. “I don’t know. They’ve been like this ever since I returned from the meeting. Even this morning they were on edge. It’s the same with the adults, too — one of my students said she actually saw an iron dragon cower.”

“Do iron dragons usually cower?”

“Only when there’s something nastier than them nearby.”

Teiran's arms prickled with unease, as she realized something. “It’s the dragonkin.”

She looked up. Was that a distant roar she was hearing, or was it just her imagination? Did dragons have more acute hearing than humans? Or was it something they could sense — some instinctive fear that took over?

“They’re moving north,” she said. “Towards the ritual site.” _And towards where Lucien is hiding the Stone…_

She traced her hands along the enclosure’s wall, searching for some way that a young dragon could have somehow scrabbling up to the ledge. As she scanned the rocky surface, she noticed a small, discoloured patch of stone in the corner.

Teiran went closer. Unlike the rest of the wall, the patch was smooth and rippling. Almost as though it had been melted…

“That clever little bastard,” she muttered, tracing her fingers over the glassy stone. “He made himself into a little welding rod. And he covered up his exit…”

“If he went straight through the wall,” Kuradal said, “he would end up in the Ancient Cavern system near the whirlpool exit. We should hurry.”

Teiran was already up the ladder. She rushed through the caves, dodging enraged barbarian spirits and waterfiends along the way. 

When she reached the cave’s lake entrance, she saw a brutal green dragon, usually ready to greet visitors with a gout of flame, attempting to huddle behind a stalactite. 

“Roland!” Teiran shouted, desperately listening for a tiny, distinctive growl amongst the rushing water and the whimpers of the green dragon. “Roland!”

Kuradal caught up behind her. “Look.”

The slayer master pointed to one of the ancient logs that came crashing down from the lake above. It was quite damp. And it was covered in claw marks. 

The sense of dread that had been bubbling in Teiran’s stomach now rose up to squeeze her chest. “You don’t think he…?”

She looked up, and then back to the log. Without another word she ran towards the underground pool, which churned and frothed like an oncoming storm, and dove in.

* * *

Teiran pulled herself out of the water next to Hadley’s house, coughing and sputtering. Baxtorian Falls roared nearby, and the evening air soaked her chilled body to the bone. She looked around wildly, hoping to see a flash of blue scales somewhere on the shore. 

Instead, she saw someone fishing. He was wearing a helm of Neitiznot, and, for some reason, had a yak sleeping next to him. 

Teiran stood up, water pouring off of her. “You.” She pointed at the fisher. “Have you seen a blue dragon, about the size of a hellhound, come by this way?”

Confusion crossed the fisherman’s face. “N-no?” He stammered. “Um, ten minutes ago I saw a big fish pass by. I guess it was kind of blue-looking. And it had these weird horns…”

“Where did it go?” Teiran asked desperately. The fisher pointed downriver.

She raced down the bank, frantically scanning the water for something — anything. Water, water, log, reeds, water….

“Roland!” She screamed, her voice echoing throughout the grotto. “Roland!”

She was about to take another step further, when a hand grabbed her shoulder. 

“You’ve run out of ground,” Kuradal said.

Teiran looked down. Below, Baxtorian Falls cascaded. As she watched, an errant branch tipped over its edge, plummeting into the white-capped rapids and disappearing into the foam. 

“No,” she whispered. She could barely hear herself say it, her voice becoming overwhelmed and drowned out by the roar of the falls below.

* * *

Teiran spent the better (and worse) part of the night searching the River Dougne — all the way from the waterfall to Ardougne, through the Khazard Battlefield, to the underground of Jiggig, and even around the Poison Wastes, loathe she was to return there. 

She shouted Roland’s name until she was hoarse, listening, fruitlessly, for a growl or roar in reply. By the time she was standing on the beach south of Castle Wars, she had no voice left to yell with, and could only rasp out a soft reply when speaking.

She dug around in her bag for a Guthix Rest, and tried to think about what she might have missed. The zoo, maybe? Maybe someone saw him and picked him up there… Maybe he’d climbed out in one of the ogre caves, and was curled up in some small, unseeable crevasse…

She was about to turn back north to retrace her steps, when Kuradal grabbed her arm. “Teiran,” she said. “You need to go home.”

Teiran shook her head. “No, no,” she croaked, her throat burning. “I have to keep looking. He could be anywhere.”

“It’s nearly midnight. You need to rest for tomorrow. We haven’t found him. He probably won’t be any easier if we look again now.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, even as her exhausted limbs protested. 

“No,” the slayer master said. “If you don’t get any sleep, you’ll be no good to Roland — or anyone. I’ll have some of my students keep an eye out along the river. But you need to go home.”

Teiran was about to argue, but her resolve crumbled under the look Kuradal gave her, compounded by her own fatigue. 

“Ok,” she whispered. 

Kuradal gave her a sad look. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The only reason we’re in this whole mess is because I wasn’t watching him.”

“He would have found a way out either way,” Teiran said. “He’s a stubborn little bugger.”

And, she reflected, what if he had been back in the dungeon at home? He would have gotten into downtown Ardougne, and ended up in a market full of guards with swords…

She shivered, not entirely because of her still-damp clothes. 

“Roland,” Kuradal said. “He’s all you have left of him, isn’t he?”

“No.” Teiran felt the outline of the dragon helm in her bag. “But he doesn’t deserve to be washed out to sea.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Kuradal said. “He’s a fighter. And we’ll find him.”

“Yeah,” Teiran said, more to herself than anything. “We will.”

* * *

Ironically, Teiran didn’t get much sleep that night. Instead, she tossed and turned in her bed, unable to get her mind to rest as her thoughts tumbled and clung to each other.

_Roland could be out there, cold, hungry… dragonkin, eyes full of fire.. Hide Arrav’s heart… place the beacons… Lucien, laughing…_

After an hour of restless turmoil, she sat up in bed, lit a candle, and took the dragon helm from its place on the nightstand. 

It was still slightly damp from its trip down the falls, and she dried it on a bit of bedsheet. It stared back at her, as empty and silent as ever. 

“I know you can’t answer me,” she said. “But, if you’re listening… somehow, I guess… I’m going to fight him tomorrow. Again.”

She sighed. “I don’t know… if I’m going to die doing it. Or not.”

She paused. “I’m not even sure I care.”

_But of course you care,_ her thoughts protested. _You should care about it. For Marianne. And Roland. And Kuradal. And that lantadyme you have growing in Catherby, and giving Robert the Strong that letter, and finally getting to Kudos Island…_

“I know I have a lot to live for,” she said. “And you probably would want me to live it.”

She gripped the helmet tightly. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow, it’ll be over. I’ll make Lucien pay, and I’ll find Roland, and…” She paused again. “Everything will be better.”

The helm said nothing.

“It will be,” she said, putting the helm to the side. “It really will be.”

With that, she fell back on the pillow and closed her eyes.

Five minutes later, she opened them again. With a frustrated sigh, she got out of bed, grabbed the candle, and headed downstairs.

_If I’m going to be kept up by my tormented thoughts,_ she said to herself, _I might as well have tea._


	32. Frostbite

Teiran was on her sixth cup of tea by the time Marianne made her way downstairs; and even then, it was half an hour before sunrise. 

“Miss,” the maid said, startled. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

Teiran took a sip from her mug, trying to conceal the caffeinated shaking in her hands. “That’s nothing you need to worry about,” she said. “Have you heard any word from Kuradal?”

Marianne shook her head. “None, miss. I’ll stay on the lookout — Asmodeus said he’s going to poke around Ardougne today and see if he can find anything.”

“Ok.” She finished off her cup and rose. “I need to get going soon. You’re fine with minding the house on your own?”

The maid nodded. And then, as she had on the night before the Lumbridge Caves, she flung herself towards Teiran and grabbed her in a bear-hug. 

“Ooof!” Teiran gasped. “You know, you’re getting rather strong. Keep it up, and you can start wielding halberds.”

“Come back safe,” the maid said. “Please. I’m still holdin’ you to your promise from last time.”

Teiran thought back to the previous night. “I intend on keeping it,” she said. 

“And besides,” she continued, “I’m taking the helm and the ring with me. No need for you to pack them again.”

A look of confusion crossed Marianne’s face. “What are you talking about?” she said. “I know better than to touch your armour unless you ask me, miss. I did pack you an extra set of holy biscuits for today, but not any helm.”

“Huh?” It was Teiran’s turn to be confused. “But then who —?”

“Madam,” Asmodeus interrupted, stepping into the kitchen. “There is a visitor waiting for you.”

“Who in Gielinor would be up at this hour?”

“I would not know. He is dressed in priestly vestments. He seemed quite uncomfortable with my presence.”

“Akrisae,” she muttered. “Is he outside?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll get my armour on and be right down.”

She contemplated making him wait an extra five minutes as she wrestled on her dragon plate, but decided against it. She wasn’t _that_ petty. She did, however, perhaps take a little longer packing than she usually did. Just to be safe. 

He was waiting by the portal, the streets of Ardougne still dark. The only noises were of the baker’s cart down the road being loaded up with the day’s deliveries, the quiet prayers of an errant druidess kneeling in front of the jade vine in Horacio’s garden, and the faint, pre-dawn torture noises from the zoo aviary. 

“What do you want?” she said, her breath fogging in the early morning air. “If you’re here to tell me about how noble we’re all being, I don’t want to hear it. You know just as well as I why I’m in on this.”

“I’m here to apologize.” The Temple Knight avoided her gaze, his hands tucked under his armpits in a feeble attempt to stave the chill. “About yesterday.”

Her expression softened. “I lost my temper. I probably could have handled it better.”

“You might have. But I… struck low.” He looked down. “It was… foolish of me. To say what I said.”

He continued. “I wasn’t there on the battlefield. Instead, I huddled in Falador Castle. Like coming up with a failed plan would make me a hero. But instead, it got people killed.”

He continued staring at his feet. And for the first time since she’d known him, Akrisae looked ashamed. 

“It…” she started. “It wasn’t your fault. We all underestimated Lucien.” _A mistake I won’t repeat._

“That makes no difference,” he said. “I acted like a self-righteous fool. I thought Saradomin was guiding me. But now…” he trailed off. 

“We’ll make it right today,” she said. “We’re better prepared this time. We have Azzanadra on our side. We have allies. We know what we’re getting into.” As she said this, she wasn’t sure if she was saying this more for him, or herself. 

Akrisae stood up a little straighter. “ _I’m_ going to make it right this time,” he said. “Today. I’ll be there, on the battlefield with you.”

Teiran turned away, hoping to hide her expression. “That’s… not the best idea.”

“Why not? I’m a Temple Knight. You yourself know we’re not lightweights.”

“Yes, well, you’re a Saradominist,” she said. “Among mahjarrat, with whom we’ve already established you get along like chalk to cheese. General Khazard will be there, no doubt with a battalion. Zemouregal will have Arrav and a whole lot of undead. Who knows what the others will bring? Not to mention Lucien, with the stone _and_ the staff.”

_And not to mention that you’re about as suited to combat as a spinach roll,_ she thought to herself.

“That makes no difference to me,” Akrisae said. “I need to atone for my mistakes.”

Teiran sighed. “I know for a fact that it’s no use dissuading you. Just… be careful. Ok? Stay low. Stay behind something solid. Preferably Kuradal.”

He managed to crack a smile at that. “I’ll do as I please, adventurer. The Lord of Light may guide me.”

“That’s kind of him,” she said. And then she added:

“I… forgive you. Akrisae.” Her chest twisted unpleasantly as she said it. But she meant it. “For what you said. And for what you did. And I’m sorry. I threw a lot of my anger at you, which isn’t fair. You didn’t kill him. Them. Lucien did.”

_And it’s Lucien who will pay._

Akrisae paused, for a measure, before replying. “Thank you. I’m sorry that I brought it to that point. What I said and did… isn’t ok. But I want to do better. And I will.”

He looked to the east, which was already beginning to brighten. “Dawn approaches.”

“I should head to the ritual site,” she said. “I trust Ali the Wise told you where it is?”

The priest nodded, and handed her a sack filled with something crystalline; as she took it, it clinked and rattled. 

“Teleorbs,” he said. “For when you find the Stone.”

“Thanks.” She stashed it in her bag. “Hopefully they won’t rub up against Arrav’s heart too much.”

Akrisae paled. “You… keep the heart… of Varrock’s greatest hero…. In your bag?”

“Usually? No. But today’s rather special, don’t you think?” She patted her satchel. “I think it’ll come in handy.”

Akrisae nodded weakly. “I’ll leave that to you.”

“Right then.” She started to head to the Legend’s Guild fairy ring. “Good luck. See you at the ritual site.”

“Saradomin be with you, adventurer,” Akrisae said. “May he guide us in all his wisdom.”

She turned away. _And may Guthix provision,_ she thought, _that this doesn’t all go bloody pear-shaped._

* * *

The snow bit and burned her fingers as she sifted it aside, carving out a little hollow between the rocks. With great delicacy Teiran placed the canopic jar there, packing the snow around it as tightly as she could. 

Piqued by curiosity, she placed an ear to the container. All she heard was a faint sloshing within. 

“I suppose it would be too much for it to beat,” she said, covering it with a final layer of snow. “I mean, he’s dead. What would make it go?”

She stood up. The sun was well over the horizon now; she estimated that it was around 9, maybe 10. There wasn’t much time to waste. 

She pulled her notebook, still slightly damp, from her pocket. “Lessee…” she ran her finger down the list. ‘Hang Zarosian lamp-thingies? Check. Snoop around Zemouregal's fort and see what he’s up to? Check. Hide Arrav’s heart? Check. Last item? Hmmmm…”

She looked up. “If I were a megalomaniac Mahjarrat with aspirations for godhood and deserving of a good punch in the face, where would I hide an all-powerful wossname?”

She surveyed the frozen waste. Zombified boravs snuffled around the plane dumbly, uprooting the snow with their rotting snouts and smelling only slightly worse than they did in life. The weird ritual statue-thing still stood in the middle of the plateau, unnerving her with its pained gaze. 

A large stone, about the size of a kitchen larder, failed to reveal itself. 

“Bugger,” she muttered. “I don’t suppose he’s having Postie Pete ship it in?”

A flicker of movement caught her eye, off to the southeast. It was human-shaped, and it wore a dark robe. 

She headed towards it, ducking behind snow drifts and dead trees. As she approached, she noticed it had its back to her, and it was muttering something. 

“These readings…. It _must_ be near… but where? Underground? Possible cold displacement…” 

The snap of a whip interrupted him; it wrapped around his arms and pulled him down, where he landed face-first in the snow. 

“Fancy this, seeing a snow-weasel,” Teiran said, stepping out from behind a frozen rock. “I’d box you up and send you to the Ardougne Zoo, Movario, but that would be too kind.”

The mage muttered angrily into the snow. 

“Funny seeing you alone,” she said. “Where’s your little Khazard solider?”

The mage muttered again, attempting to wriggle loose from his bonds. 

“What’s that? Speak clearly.” Teiran flipped him over with her foot. Movario, now on his back, spat out a clump of ice and gave her a look of death. 

“I know one thousand secrets,” he sputtered, “all of which would drive you mad, and _this_ is how you treat me?”

“Yes.” She tightened the whip. The mage winced as the barbs dug into his arms. “Let’s play a game. You tell me what the hell you’re doing up here, and I decide whether it’s worth dropping you in the Zamorak part of the God Wars Dungeon with nothing on but a holy symbol.”

“I’m looking for the stone!” he spat. “Lucien never let me look at it! That blasted mahjarrat denied me the opportunity of a lifetime!”

“You and me both,” she said. “I assume from the fact you’re not glowing with power right now that you haven’t found it.”

“Ooooh, we’ve got a _smart_ one here. No, I haven’t found it, you meat-headed simpleton!”

“Brave of you, to keep insulting me like that,” she said. “You know, I think General Graadoor would just _love_ you. I’ll just throw you to him and say that you called the Big High War God a fluffy little bunny rabbit. Won’t that be something for your notes?”

Movario’s face turned a shade of bruised purple. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” She snapped the whip tighter. “The fact I haven’t done so already is a testament to my mercy. What have you found out about the stone?”

“Noth—” Teiran narrowed her eyes, and he reevaluated his strategy. “It’s nearby,” he said. “I’m not sure where, my readings are all over the place. Too much ancient enchantment around here. All I know is there’s shadow magic near it.”

“Hmmm.” She released the whip from Movario’s arms. “Shadow magic, eh? Good thing I packed…”

The mage sat up. “I would hope you wouldn’t attack me again, woman!” he spat. “If you must know, I am doing research! Important research!”

“So you are.” She raised her hand and cast tele-other; Movario let out a strangled yelp before he disappeared, leaving behind a wizard-shaped imprint in the snow. 

“You can be the Lumbridge guards’ problem,” she said, lowering her hand. “Now, let’s make things a little less shadow-y…”

She rummaged around in her bag and pulled out the ring of visibility, slipping it around her thumb. As she did so, the air in front of her shimmered, revealing a translucent pedestal standing next to a low frozen ledge. 

“This looks familiar….” She took out a heat globe she’d pilfered from Ghorrock a little earlier. The prospect of relinquishing it filled her with a preliminary chill; however, she could see no other way. 

She placed the globe on the pedestal. It glowed, radiating warmth; as it did so, the frozen exterior on the cliffside began to drip and melt. 

A minute later, something shifted in the glacial layer of the ledge. With a crack and a sigh, a sheet of ice slipped from the cliff, shattering on the ground and sending up a cloud of powdered snow and ice.

Teiran coughed, shielding her eyes from the explosion of frost. When she opened them, she saw that a hole had been revealed in the rock face; it was narrow, but just big enough for her to squeeze through. Within the cold depths, she thought she could see a faint glow. 

Teiran inhaled, the icy air lending her thoughts an edge of unusual clarity. She exhaled, slowly, her breath descending like smoke from her mouth.

_Well,_ she thought. _It’s now or never._


	33. Attack

Teiran entered the cave, heart beating in her chest. Despite the fact she no longer had the heat globe, some small flame within her flickered and burned. 

The caves were silent, the sound as frozen and still as the tunnels that wound through them. She could see the glow more clearly now; it shone across the ice, and she found herself walking inexorably forward. Even her footsteps in the powdery snowdrifts were muffled, as though the place was trying to snuff out her very presence. 

It wasn’t far. As she rounded the corner she saw it. It shone, even under the layer of frost that had accumulated on it. 

Even though it was dwarfed by the size of the cavern that contained it, the Stone of Jas seemed to fill Teiran’s whole vision; like a planet, like the sun; and she couldn’t tear her eyes away, though they watered.

She walked to it, slowly. Despite the frost on it, and the snow that had accumulated around it, she felt it emit warmth. 

_ Don’t touch it, _ she thought, as her burning hand reached for it. She tried grabbing her right arm and holding it in place, but this only slowed its approach. 

_ Don’t touch it! _ Her thoughts screamed, as she felt herself drawn to it with an inexplicable magnetism.  _ You know what happened last time! It’ll injure you, or worse! Stop it! Stop! _

Her hand touched the stone. Despite the warmth it radiated, it burned with cold; her palm erupted in pain, and she cried out. Her vision blurred and swam, and then focused, and she gazed upon a scene far different than the icy cave…

* * *

_ They were fighting. They had fought, for years, and decades, and centuries; not the same people, of course, but with the same intent as their predecessors. Flesh was greeted by metal, and the ground was greeted by blood; and all around, the battle hymns of fury and agony mixed and rose into the thick, hot air. _

_ The winged woman dodged a blow from the monstrosity in front of her, raising her sword for another attack. The demon, however, grinned, and swung his fist towards her as she charged. It met her side with a sickening crunch, and she let out a strangled gasp. She crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from her mouth while the demon above her leered.  _

_ He gazed at her broken body for a minute more before departing, his footsteps sending small quakes throughout the ground.  _

_ The battle continued to rage. The woman, however, lay still.  _

_ Another figure appeared; though it was smaller than the demon, it was no less imposing. It wore vestments of blue and gold, and its body glowed with an unearthly aura.  _

_ He kneeled by the fallen fighter; as he did so, the scene shifted. The chaos of battle was replaced with dead silence, and the ground was replaced by cracked wasteland. They seemed to be in a cave; shadows lurked at the corners, held back only by the glow of the stone in front of them.  _

_ The figure raised his hand. The stone glowed brighter, as a light filled his outstretched palm, gathering like moths to flame. _

_ “Be healed, my loyal commander.” _

_ The woman below him stirred; her bruises dissolved and her wounds closed. All the while, the stone continued to glow, a miniature sun in the gloom of the underground. _

* * *

_ She stood on the shore, watching the last red rays of the sun sink into the ocean. All was quiet, save for the lapping of the water, and the soft flutter of cloth as the wind tousled her druidic garb.  _

_ She turned, like she had heard something. Though her eyes were concealed by her hood, her expression was unmistakably sorrowful.  _

_ “I will see you. Soon. Wait for me.” The voice was familiar — and lonelier, somehow. She pressed a finger to her lips, as though to keep a secret. _

_ And the sun sank beneath the waves, plunging everything into darkness.  _

* * *

Teiran opened her eyes. 

The stone shone in front of her once again, and her hands trembled, suffused with a faint light. In her right palm, she saw a white-hot flame flicker and dance, though she sensed no fire in it. Like before, she felt light on her feet; almost as though she could float. 

This time, however, she felt different. Lighter. Warmer. Less tethered to the earth. 

_ Is it because I’m stronger this time?  _ She thought muzzily.  _ Or maybe it’s cumulative…  _

A red flash filled the room, blinding her; it was accompanied by a shrieking buzz.

Teiran closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears; the light was too blinding, the sound too deafening; her senses had become magnified times a thousand…

“INTRUDER DETECTED!” the alarm screamed, its voice striking in her head like a hammer. “INTRUDER DETECTED! INITIATING EMERGENCY EXTRACTION SPELL! DUMPING INTRUDER ON THE PLATEAU.”

The air around her shifted, and the light and sound blissfully melted away. She felt wind whistle in her ears, and heard several surprised shouts. 

“I say, old bean!”

She opened her eyes again. 

She was standing on the frozen plateau again; Sir Tiffy Cashien, heading a small squad of White Knights, was looking at her confusedly. Ali the Wise, unflappable as usual, stood next to him with a look of quiet bemusement. Akrisae, on the other hand, was thoroughly shocked. 

“Teiran!” he shouted. “How did you get here? And…” he squinted. “Are you… glowing?”

She looked to him blurrily. There were the aura-thingies again; Akrisae’s was a flickering green, oddly enough, with a dark edge to it. Sir Tiffy’s shone like white armour, while Ali the Wise’s burned like a scorchmark on parchment. 

“By all accounts,” she said, her voice resonating, “It makes as much sense to me as you.”

The priest paled, but managed to keep his composure. “Well, I’m glad we found you, at least.”

“What are you doing here?” She could sense something already; a thickness in the air and a smell of ozone; and energy, far off, amassing…

“The time of the ritual approaches,” Ali the Wise said. “We must make our approach now.”

“We have a squadron of White Knights,” Akrisae said. “Idria is on her way with the Guardians of Armadyl.”

Teiran nodded, only half-listening. Off toward the ritual site, she could feel a heat growing, and a dreadful sense of anticipation. 

“Something’s coming,” she said. 

The air in front of the rippled. Akrisae gasped as a half-dozen heavily armored troops materialized, led by a seven-foot-tall, sneering, skeletal mahjarrat.

“So, all the vermin together in a pack,” it cackled. “Ready to be slaughtered like lambs!”

Ali the Wise shook his head. “You never were our brightest star, Khazard. 'Vermin slaughtered like lambs'? What does that even mean?”

The general peered at the scholar. “Wahisietel, is that you? Hanging out with Saradominists now, are we?”

Khazard fired a spell towards Ali, hitting him straight-on before Teiran could react. Ali’s form rippled, before fizzling out, replaced by a similarly tall skeleton to the mahjarrat general. 

“Huh,” Teiran remarked. “Unexpected. But entirely unsurprising.”

Akrisae, however, was starting to launch into a panic attack. 

“Mah. Mah. Mama. Mahjarrat!” he squeaked, pointing to the figure that stood in Ali the Wise’s place. 

“Oh, calm down, you twit,” Teiran said, her voice buzzing with annoyance. “He’s on our side. If he wanted us dead, he could have done it long ago.”

Wahisietel nodded. “The human guise was useful while it lasted,” he said. “But we cannot delay any further.”

Teiran turned to General Khazard and his battalion. “Oi. Bugger off,” she said. Though she had touched the stone not long ago, she didn’t know how long the power would last; for now, however, it burned within her, with all the fury and light of a nova. 

“Have the knights keep to the human troops,” she told Tiffy. “Leave Khazard to me.”

The mahjarrat laughed. “Oh, this is rich! You think it’ll be like the Fight Arena? Do you think I’ll hold back on squashing you like an insect?”

Teiran unhooked her whip. She began walking towards the general, her footsteps crunching in the snow with the weight of deliberacy. 

“And what makes you think,” she said, her footfall breaking into a charge, the power of creation roaring within her, “that I won’t either?”

Khazard laughed as she charged towards him. Teiran lashed her whip, wrapping it around the general and letting loose and Energy Drain charge.

“Oh, that tickles!” he cackled. “Do you think your little clothesline will hurt me?”

“No,” she said. “It’s to hold you in place.”

She swung her leg upward, kicking him in a location that, while she was unsure of the significance to which it would be to a mahjarrat, would have opened a unique window of agony to a man.

Evidently, the sunroom that was Khazard’s experience was receiving an airing. As foot met underside, the laughing stopped, and became a long-drawn out groan.

The Khazard soldiers, who had been charging towards the Temple Knights with full mercenary fury, froze. So too did the knights themselves; in fact, every male in the vicinity stopped what they were doing. For the first time in centuries, man and mahjarrat shared a common, horrifying experience, united in their empathetic suffering. 

Khazard collapsed to his knees and fell to the side, with a soft  _ pffft _ as he landed in a snowdrift. 

“General!” One of the soldiers ran to the fallen mahjarrat, skidding to a stop, as Khazard raised a hand. 

“Leave me,” he said, his voice now considerably higher. “I am merely… recollecting my thoughts. Annihilate the Saradominists while I do so.”

The soldier nodded, and turned back to the battle. 

Wahisietel stood next to Teiran, a bemused expression on his face as he watched Khazard struggle to his feet.

“That was a low blow,” he said. “Even for you.”

“He was in my way,” Teiran buzzed. She felt it again — the roar. The fury. Her mind was fixed on one thing, rendering everything else a mere obstacle:  _ Get to Lucien. _

Khazard had managed to get to his feet, albeit shakily. 

“You’ll pay for this,” he seethed, his voice still a measure higher. “You — you —”

She silenced him with an earth spell, which bounced off his head with a dull thud.

“Raaaaaaaagh!” he screamed, stumbling. He furiously fired a bolt of energy, which Teiran neatly side-stepped. As she did so, she felt something akin to a beartrap clamp down on her armoured leg. 

She looked down. A ghostly hellhound had affixed its jaw around her shin, snarling.

“Bouncer!” Khazard screeched. “Destroy this fool!”

Teiran looked at the spectre dully. She swung her leg again and kicked, sending it flying across the plateau with a yelp.

“You annoy me,” she staid, stepping towards Khazard. “And you’re wasting my time.”

Khazard was attempting to cast another spell; however, she stopped him with a snap of the whip to his hands. A second earth attack struck his chest, sending him stumbling back on the icy rock. Teiran lashed the whip around his ankle and pulled, sending the mahjarrat crashing to the ground once more.

She stood over him, expressionless. Khazard’s face was twisted in rage — and, she suspected for the first time in his entire life, fear.

“How…” he sputtered. “How could you defeat me? What… are you?”

She blinked. “Angry.”

She raised her hand and began to charge a fire spell. The light of the flames grew brighter, flickering across Khazard’s face.

“Troops!” the mahjarrat cried out. “Fall back!”

Confused shouts rose among the fighting men; before Teiran could attack again, Khazard teleported away. 

She lowered her hand, letting the fire spell fizzle out. She looked up to see the White Knights looking around confusedly, frozen in mid-attack — evidently Khazard had spirited away his army as well. 

“Hmph,” Teiran grunted. “I suppose it would be too much to ask that it’ll be the last we see of him?”

Wahisietel nodded. “It would be. Heedless as he is, Khazard would be fool to leave the site so close to the ritual time.”

She looked to the hill. On it, though she saw it faintly, a dark flame burned.

“We must make haste,” Wahisietel said. “Adven —?”

Teiran didn’t stop to listen — she was already making her way up the hill. Sir Tiffy and the knights caught up behind her. 

“Wait up, old bean!” Sir Tiffy shouted. She didn’t slow her pace.

_ He’s there. He’s there. He’ll be there, _ she thought, her mind burning through the cold.  _ And I’ll feel my fist smash into his stupid, smug face and I’ll make him pay… _

The snow was falling harder now; however, Teiran didn’t notice it. As it hit her armour, it melted and began to steam. 

She reached the crest of the plateau, her breathing clouding the air as she exhaled. The snow-covered clearing was empty, save for the ritual market, which gaped and leered at her. 

And the dark, burning shadow next to it…

Wahisietel caught up next to her. 

“I sense him,” he said. “He probably teleported here directly.”

He turned to the marker. “KHAZARD!” Wahisietel bellowed. “REVEAL YOURSELF!”

The shadow blurred, and Teiran felt a deep sense of unease fill her. 

“Khazard’s not here,” a horribly familiar voice said. “Will I do, Wahisietel?”

The darkness disappeared, and Lucien materialized, the Staff of Armadyl in hand. A wicked sneer was spread across his face, and his eyes glittered with malice.

The first time Teiran had seen him, standing on the blackened, scorched earth of the Wilderness, she’d felt fear. The second time, when he’d stood under the Lumbridge caves as the Stone of Jas glittered nearby, she’d felt apprehension. 

Now, however, as she stood on the frozen plateau, whip in her hand and power surging through her body, she felt one thing, and one thing only.

Fury. 

Her voice echoed like a legion across the plane, her heart buzzing in her chest and her spirit roaring in an inferno. 

_"You."_   



	34. The Return of Lucien

Lucien stood on the plateau, the wind whipping his robes about. He wore a wicked leer, made only more grotesque by the glowing Staff of Armadyl that he clutched in his bony hand. 

Teiran didn’t stop to observe. Instead, she broke into a full charge towards the mahjarrat, her teeth clenched in fury. 

“Hmph,” Lucien grunted. “You’re that puny human who keeps meddling in all of my plans. You’re rather starting to get on my nerves.”

He snapped his fingers. Teiran felt the bindings of a stun begin to lock her limbs. She roared, and with a surge of strength, ripped her arms free.

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Persistent little nit,” he muttered. “I should have squashed you back in Edgeville.”

Teiran didn’t listen. Instead, she kept charging towards him. As she did, he raised his hand and let loose a blast. It landed on her chest and sent her flying backwards, and she landed several yards back. 

She should have been feeling pain, she thought, as she tumbled over and over on the icy ground. Instead, she felt only white-hot rage. 

She got up. “You MURDERER!” Her scream echoed over the plateau, louder than it should have. Off in Zemouregal’s fortress, a few icicles shook and fell to the ground. In Ghorrock, a snowdrift shifted and slid off the roof.

Even Lucien seemed to be startled by the outburst, regaining his composure only a minute later.

“Are you referring to the little scuffle by the Chaos Temple?” he said. “That was a good bit of fun. The look on your little friend’s faces as I turned them to ash — delightful! I haven’t seen fear like that since the God Wars.”

Teiran charged at him again, propelled by some mad insanity that darkened everything in her vision but the mahjarrat; her thoughts were one breathless stream of fury.

_ II’llkillyouI’llkillyouI’llkillyouI’llkillyouI’llkillyouI’llkillyouI’llkillyouI’llkillyouIWILLFUCKINGKILLYOU _

Lucien waved the staff. The space next him rippled, as four monstrous beings, made from what looked like blocks of ice melded together, shimmered into existence, blocking him from view. 

Sir Tiffy was shouting something into a Commorb; as Teiran skidded to a stop to avoid crashing into the wall of ice titans in her path, Idria and the Guardians of Armadyl materialized next to her. 

“And not a moment too soon,” Wahisietel said, arriving at Teiran’s side. “Adventurer, you must keep a cool head. Lucien is too powerful for you to face on your own.”

She shot him an angry glare. “I’m stronger this time!” she snapped. “If I don’t face him now, the Stone’s power will fade out!”

The Mahjarrat’s eyes widened. “You touched the Fist of Guthix?” he said. “Twice now? I’m surprised you haven’t disintegrated.”

“Erm,” Tiffy cut in. “I believe we’ve a more pressing problem, old sprout.”

Teiran looked up. One of the ice giants was pulling its frozen, club-like fists back, preparing to swing. 

She ducked out of the way, rolled to a stop in the snow. “Stop hiding!” she screamed. “You miserable little power-hungry toad!”

She let loose a fire wave, melting part of one of the ice-demon’s arms, which it didn’t appear to notice. 

“You take care of the creatures!” Wahisietel yelled. “I’ll handle Lucien!”

She blasted off another fire spell, melting more of the titan’s body. Around her, fighting broke out; Idria was throwing her own spells, while Sir Tiffy was hacking away at one of the ice monsters, sending flakes flying in a cloud around him. Akrisae was kneeling on the ground, praying, and she could see a divine shaft of light shining down on the other two. 

_ Saradomin probably wouldn’t help me much anyways, _ she thought gruffly, as she took off another limb from the titan in front of her. From behind it, she would see Wahisietel and Lucien locked in their own battle, the two mahjarrat flinging spells at each other with intense concentration. 

_ C’mon, c’mon, die already! _ She thought, as she dodged a swing from the ice monster.  _ You’re the only thing standing between me and him, you stupid bastard! _

As she thought this, a wave of blackness suddenly hit her. Teiran cried out as the darkness washed over her, filling her with a numbing cold that sapped her strength. She was afraid for a moment that it had robbed her of the stone’s power; however, the feeling proved to be momentary. 

Still, she felt weaker on her feet in its aftermath, as though the fire had dimmed within her. She reached into her bag and retrieved a Guthix rest, pulling out the cork with her teeth and chugging it in one go. 

_ That’s better. _ The titan swung again, and as she dodged it a ball of dark energy whizzed by her, coming from Lucien’s direction. 

_ Tosser! _ She tried firing a spell at him, but the ice titan blocked it with its bulk. 

“Aaaaargh!” She howled. “Stop getting in my way!” 

The titan was between her and the Mahjarrat. She knew she could probably finish it off with one or two more spells, but her frustration was reaching a peak. 

She touched the dragon helm on her head.  _ Cyrisus, _ she thought.  _ If you were here, you would probably think that this is a stupid idea. And it probably is.  _

_ But, at the very least, help me not concuss myself. _

She charged, lowering her head and pushing her momentum forward. She felt her head collide with the titan’s torso. It crunched and crumbled as the creature flailed; she kept pushing, feeling the ice explore around her. It fell back, crashing onto the ground with a heavy thud, before its body split in two with a thunderous crack.

Teiran looked up, her head only slightly swimming. The others seemed to have finished off their own titans as well; Lucien and Wahisietel, however, were still locked in their own battle. 

“Oi!” she yelled. “You! Skeleton man! The one who happens to be a bloody rat-fucker! We’ve finished off your little goons!”

Lucien looked over. “Is that really how you choose to address a god, insect?” he sneered. 

“You’re no god,” she said. “You’re a coward and a petty thief. And if you were a god, I’d call you something worse!”

Lucien scowled. “Your insolence will be your doom. It’s time for a harsher lesson.”

He raised the staff again; it glowed with the same light that had summoned the ice titans. This time, however, a more numerous legion appeared on the plane. Spine-covered ice demons materialized next to him, separating him and Wahisietel. Teiran couldn’t count them all, but there had to be a dozen and a half, at least. 

Teiran swore. “Hide all you want!” she screamed. “I’ll get to you one way or another!”

Even as she said this, however, she felt doubt bloom in her chest. The stone’s power  _ was _ fading — she could feel the flame within her begin to burn out, and the dark aura around Lucien was becoming fainter by the moment. 

“This won’t be easy,” Wahisietel said. “The fight earlier has taken a considerable amount of energy out of me.”

“Shit.” The ice demons began to march forward towards Sir Tiffy and the others. She saw him clutching one of his arms, and already a few of the guardians and knights looked like they had been badly injured.  _ This is bad. We might not be able to get through these bastards. _

“Perhaps I can be of help?” a voice like oiled silk said next to her. 

Teiran shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. The voice sounded familiar — but she couldn’t place where she heard it before. 

As she turned, she saw its source. A skeletal mahjarrat, wearing dark brown and red robes, had materialized next to her. 

He grinned at her, which somehow filled Teiran with intense discomfort.

“Sliske,” Wahisietel said. “Praise Zaros. Always in the right place at the right time, brother.”

“Indeed.” Sliske grinned wider. “Perhaps it is time for us to fight together again.”

Lucien cackled behind the wall of ice demons. “Sliske! I wondered when you might slink in,” he said. “But you should have stayed hidden in your shadows this time. What can you hope to do against the power of Lucien?”

“Stop referring to yourself in the third person, you tit!” Sliske said. “It makes you sound like some sort of pantomime villain. Totally embarrassing.”

“Silence, you fool!” Lucien howled. “You and the puny humans are no match for my army!”

“The puny humans might not be,” Sliske said. “But these nice gentlemen are.”

He clapped his hands. Six dark figures materialized behind the mahjarrat; dark against the snow, Teiran recognized them as the Barrows Brothers.

“Alright, boys,” Sliske said. “Go, have fun. Shoo.”

The wights immediately set to fighting the ice demons, as did the rest of the party; Teiran threw herself into the throng, aiming herself towards Lucien. 

_ You godsdamn coward! _ She fumed, punching an ice demon with one hand while throwing a fire spell with the other.  _ Hide behind all the monsters you want. You can’t hide from me! _

“My, my,” Sliske said behind her. “Someone is  _ upset _ . And here’s me, thinking the little tiff you threw in the crypts a month ago was a one-off!”

She turned, mid-fire spell. “What are you talking about?” she said, suspiciously.

“Nothing, nothing! Carry on with your destruction,” he said. “That ice demon is now quite liquefied, by the way. I would save your runes.”

She looked down. The fiend she’d been firing spells at was now a pile of slush.

“Yes, well, you can never be sure with these sorts,” she said crossly. 

The rest of the battle went quickly enough; with the aid of the Barrows Brothers (Arhim in particular whom she gave a wide berth) and Sliske, Sir Tiffy was able to pick off the last straggler mere minutes later.

“Are you done hiding behind your minions?” she yelled, pulling her whip free of a dead demon. “Or are you going to finally admit that you’re as useless as a pile of fish offcuts in the GE?”

Lucien, who had been blocking a blast from Wahisietel, scowled. “I grow tired of your pathetic attempts to stop me,” he said. “You must realize by now that you can do nothing. Besides, there are more pressing matters: the ritual is upon us.”

As he said this, the air around him shimmered, as several other mahjarrat teleported in. Enakha and Anthanakos appeared at the same time, squabbling like siblings; Azzanadra materialized next, wearing his horned headgear for the first time Teiran had seen him outside the pyramid she’d freed him from.

Zemouregal was next, followed by Khazard; as the general spotted Teiran on the plateau, his skull-like face paled even further as he turned away. 

“Now that you’re all here,” Lucien said, observing the assorted mahjarrat before him. “It is time for me to choose the sacrifice for the ritual.”

“Like hell you will!” Teiran said, stepping forward. “You and I have undecided business!”

Wahisietel, however, stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Wait, adventurer.”

She shook the hand off. “Why would I?!”

“You are amongst mahjarrat. It would be unwise to interfere with their debate.”

She looked at the motley crew, which had erupted into a shouting match, their voices low and growling in a language she couldn’t recognize. 

“I don’t care if they’re arguing about the ritual or the best way to cook an oomlie bird,” she said. “I’m not letting anything get in my way!”

As she said this, Lucien slammed the Staff of Armadyl onto the ground. The frozen earth opened, and from it rose a block of ice, within encased a robed mahjarrat.

The ice block landed with a hard thud on the ground, shattering on impact. Jhallan tumbled from his frozen prison, half-conscious and entirely confused.

_ Poor bastard, _ Teiran thought.  _ Aris was right. Total cannon fodder. After all that time poking around in those bloody caves, too… _

Lucien was paying attention to the prone mahjarrat in front of him, and Teiran saw her chance. She dashed forward, her feet slamming into the ice below as she launched herself towards Lucien again. 

Zemouregal noticed her, and unleashed a wind spell in her direction. A howling gale erupted around her, and she struggled to stay in place as the gusts threatened to push her back. 

“Enough!” Zemouregal howled. “I shall not let you interfere with our business!”

He slammed his staff on the ground, summoning four armoured zombies and a familiar, hulking undead. Arrav’s sword smashed heavily into the ground where he landed, and his helmeted face showed only darkness where his eyes would be. 

Teiran rolled her eyes. “Enough with the distractions!” As the wind spell died down she attempted to take another step forward; however, Arrav blocked her way with a swing from his massive blade. 

“Adventurer!” Wahisietel yelled. “Azzanadra and I will handle Lucien. You deal with Arrav!”

“Fine, fine,” she rolled her eyes. “Let another trifle get in the way of my revenge. I’ve got all day, after all.”

She looked at the undead warrior hulking above her.  _ I could probably defeat him, _ she thought, as he slowly raised his sword.  _ But that would take too much time. _

She rolled out of the way of his attack, which slammed into the ground and sent up a shower of ice and snow.  _ Time for plan B, then. _

Teiran stood up. “Oi! Arrav!”

The warrior looked up. 

“You call yourself the defender of Varrock?” she said. “Well, guess what? Varrock’s the bloody pits! The buildings are rubbish, the fastest way to the Grand Exchange is by a hole in the ground and the queen is a whiny nag!”

Arrav turned to her, and began to shuffle after her Teiran danced back; however, the zombie was moving too slowly for her tastes. 

“By the way!” She shouted, jogging backwards to a certain pile of rocks. “The quest to get your shield was stupid and annoying!”

_ Now _ he picked up the pace. With a groan, Arrav began running full-speed towards Teiran, as she turned and ran breakneck towards the heart’s hiding place. 

_ Ali, I mean Wahisietel, _ she thought,  _ you’d better be right about this part.  _

She stopped by the rock pile and watched Arrav approach like an angry, runaway mine cart. 

“I haven’t had to wait this long since I went to the bank near the museum!” she yelled. “I guess the tellers were too busy resenting the fact they live in Varrock to do their jobs!”

Arrav roared, raising his sword and barreling towards her. As he neared the rocks, however, he stopped as though he’d hit an invisible wall. 

“I….” he groaned. “My….”

“Yep,” she said. “I got your heart back. Erm, it’s a little on the cold side. But I suppose everything about you is at the moment.”

He lowered his sword. “Everything,” he groaned, his vocal chord creaking with age. “Everything you said about Avarrocka… lies, meant to lure me here?”

“Yes,” she said.  _ Except for the bit about the Grand Exchange. And the Queen. _

“You’re free now,” she continued. “If you want to go down to Al Kharid and get a kebab or something, I honestly wouldn’t blame you. You’ve been through quite a lot.”

“No.” He hefted his sword to his shoulder. “It is time for me to defend Varrock once more.”

“Good,” she said, grinning. “We haven’t a moment to waste.”

Arrav launched himself toward Zemouregal with a roar. The mahjarrat screamed, desperately attempting to block himself with his hands as the undead warrior assailed him. 

“Cousin!” he shrieked to Lucien. “You would stand by and do nothing?”

Lucien, who was trading spells with Azzanadra, Wahisietel and Sliske, barely glanced at him. “I’ve no time for weaklings,” he said. “After that little display, I doubt helping you is worth my time or effort.”

Zemouregal howled. “That’s it! I’ve had it! You’ve always been a haughty pillock, but this really does it!”

He turned to the Enakhra, who was still arguing with Athanakos. “We’re sacrificing him this round!” he yelled. “Next cycle, we’ll take out the Zarosian!”

Enakrha rolled her eyes. “Oh, fine! You owe me for the next 500 years, though!”

Khazard upon seeing this, sputtered. “But Zemouregal!” he whined. “I wanted to take out Wahisietel! Or Azzanadra!”

“Quiet, you whiny little twit,” the necromancer snapped back. “Now’s not the time for rivalries. Lucien’s turned on us. If he won’t help his own cousin, then what would he do to the rest of you?”

Lucien suddenly stopped fighting, letting an attack from Azzanadra splash off of him. 

“ENOUGH!” he roared. “I tire of your petty squabbles. Face me if you wish, but those who oppose me will be crushed beneath my boots like the petty insects they are. Jhallan will be the sacrifice — he is weak, and does not deserve to be called a mahjarrat. Let him serve as an example.”

He turned to Teiran and the group of humans.

“You’ve been an amusing distraction,” he said, “that now has grown quite stale. I haven't the time to turn you all to dust, so instead, I’ll just leave you with this.”

He raised the Staff of Armadyl. The ground rumbled and shook, and several knights and guardians were knocked off their feet. Akrisae clung to Idria to avoid falling, while Tiffy wobbled precariously.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy my little pet,” Lucien said, as the glacor materialized in front of them. “Right up to the moment it bashes your pathetic little skulls in.”

The ice monster loomed. It really couldn’t do anything else when it was standing still, except maybe tower, or massively outsize, Teiran reflected. It would have blotted out the midday sun if it weren’t for its riblike body.

_ I can take this,  _ Teiran thought, as the monster floated closer.  _ It might take me a few hits, and it might get a few hits in on me, but I can handle this. So what if I’ve only got a few fire spells left? This isn’t anything I can’t handle. It’s just this standing between you and Lucien…. _

A distant crackling sound interrupted her thoughts. As it got louder, Teiran realized that it was coming from behind her, and that the back of her head was starting to feel warmer by the second. 

Propelled by instinct and the fresh memories of Mos Le'Harmless, she ducked. 

A massive gout of fire slammed into the glacor, knocking it back. Teiran felt the hairs on the back of her neck singe, and rivers of ice-cold water began to pour down from the rapidly melting monster. 

A second fire spell hit it. The glacor hissed as its half-melted body gave up and exploded in a cloud of steam. 

Teiran looked up, over to the source of the fire. Behind the clouds, she could see a figure making its way up the plateau, a ball of flame dancing in one of its hands. A massive sword was strapped to its back.

“Really now,” the figure said, tossing the fire as if it were an apple. “Were you going to let me miss out on all the fun? I thought we agreed we both had a right to vengeance.”

A grin slowly crept up on Teiran’s face. 

“Kuradal,” she breathed. “You’re just in time. Lucien’s been hiding behind monsters this whole time — I haven’t been able to get a hit in on him.”

“Hmm?” Kuradal said. “You’ve been waylaid by a few ice fiends? Ah, no matter.”

She walked over to Teiran, and looked towards Lucien. “Hello, you pathetic little cave slug that’s calling itself a mahjarrat. You do not know me.” She let the fire extinguish in her hands. “But I know you. And I hate you. I would say that your death will be swift and certain, but that would be an understatement. I aim to annihilate you so quickly that the reaper himself will be caught off-guard.”

“You killed my father,” she continued. “Prepare to die.”

Lucien sneered. “You think I would stop at one glacor?” he said. “I have more where that came from!”

He snapped his fingers. The air rippled again; however, any number of glacors failed to materialize. 

Lucien looked around in confusion. “My army… where is it?”

“Oh, that,” Kuradal said. “You wouldn’t happen to have been in an ice-cave about a mile back, would it be? I happened to stop by, which is the reason for my lateness. I must say, the first few were a bit of a challenge, but once you get the knack of it, they’re easier to handle than butter with a hot knife.” She grinned. “I considered taking a few home for my collection. But, alas, I think they’re a little on the weak side.”

Kuradal hefted the sword from her back. “Now that that is taken care of — Teiran, I believe we had a little smear of dirt we have sworn to wipe off the face of Gielinor.”

Teiran unfurled her whip. Though the stone’s power had faded considerably, she could still feel it persisting within her core — like a stubborn candle flame that refused to be put out. And, as Lucien stood before her, with nothing between them, she felt it flicker and roar once more. 

“This ends,” she said. “Now.”

And the two women, fueled by their rage and their sorrow, charged towards the mahjarrat with a combined, feral scream.


	35. The Fire Burns

Teiran hurtled towards Lucien, whip raised and ready. Kuradal, running beside her, summoned a fireball in her right hand and hurtled it towards the mahjarrat. It exploded against him, the heat leaving a stream of melted snow in the spell’s wake. When the smoke cleared, however, Lucien’s robes weren’t even scorched.

“Pathetic,” he spat. “Must a god entertain the childish tantrums of those beneath him?”

He pointed the staff towards Teiran, and a wave of blackness flooded over her.

It was like being plunged into freezing water. For a moment, she couldn’t see, or hear, or feel anything but a burning cold. 

_ C’mon, c’mon! _ She thought, willing her legs to keep running even as they grew heavier.  _ Don’t let a little party trick like this get in your way! _

The spell dissipated, and her strength returned. Not all the way, but enough to keep propelling herself forward

_ Hot things. _ she thought.  _ Think hot things. The TzHaar Fight Pits. The Kharidian Desert. The sun. The Wilderness Volcano. Asmodeus’ curries. _

His hand, in hers, against the night chill…

She leapt, even as her muscles screamed, and launched herself towards Lucien. His eyes were twisted in surprise — and anger. As she fell towards him, she thought,  _ I’m going to make you feel this. _

Her fist met his skull for the second time; this time, however, there was no barrier around it. She felt her knuckles meet bone, and she drove it forward with all her might. 

Then something slammed into her side with the force of a cannonball. Lucien punched her out of the way midair, throwing her sideways with a powerful blow. Something cracked under his fist —  _ probably another rib  _ — though the adrenaline coursing through her body numbed the pain for the moment. 

She crashed into a snowdrift a yard away. It blinded her as she scrambled to sit up, her ears ringing and head swimming, and she could hear Kuradal shouting in the distance. 

“Monster!” the slayer master screamed. “I will see your end! Your blood will pay for the pain you’ve caused me!”

Teiran got up just in time to see Kuradal swing her blade towards Lucien, which he deftly dodged around. The slayer master, screaming in fury, flung another fireball at him, which splashed off harmlessly. 

Teiran ran up to her, ignoring the throbbing in her side. “He’s slippery,” she warned. “The only reason he’s not teleported right now is probably to save his magic.”

“Hmmm,” Kuradal muttered. “He is weakened, for sure. The other mahjarrat must have done some damage.”

“Magic won’t work. Not offensive magic, at least. We’ll have to melee.”

“Melee I can do,” Kuradal said, hefting the sword again. “We need to find a gap we can exploit.”

She watched Lucien, who was in the middle of charging another dark spell. “How do we find it? He’s pretty fortified on all sides.”

Kuradal grinned. “We make one.”

* * *

Lucien watched with disinterest as the dragon-armoured human ran towards him, an earth spell in its hand. This one was surprisingly persistent — it had interfered with far too many of his plans for his liking — but he figured that it had been amusing enough to watch. 

_ How pathetic, _ he thought boredly as a chunk of rock bounced off his armour.  _ It manages to hit me twice and thinks it has some modicum of hope that it can defeat me. _

Even the other mahjarrat had stopped firing at him — the idiot Zarosians, he reflected, probably wished to avoid hitting the humans, and the Zamorokians likely wanted to watch the spectacle.

_ Fools, _ he thoughts.  _ Clouded by distraction and sentiment. They’ll learn soon enough who their true leader is… _

Still — as the human hurtled a useless, damp water spell at him, something about it unnerved him. It had a faint glow about it, barely visible against the snow, that seemed unnatural. And it had managed to strike him… 

Lucien sneered. “I should have killed you back at the Chaos Temple,” he said, raising his staff. “And not have been distracted by that stupid, twiggy insect that got in my way—”

The human roared and threw a wind spell at him, which failed to do anything but ruffle his robes slightly.

In response, he unleashed a wave of blackness from the staff. He had used this spell before — it had rotted flesh from bone in men, desiccated corpses and sucked life out of the very ground they’d stood on. The human was enveloped in a wave of necrotic darkness…

And stayed upright, even as the spell passed through it. While a little paler, the most it had seemed to do was make it angrier.

“Still you stand,” he said. “And still you delay your inevitable death. By all means, keep attacking. Do you think you can even hit me?”

The human threw a fireball at his face, which did nothing but obscure his vision with a temporary wall of flame. 

“No,” it said. Its voice, however, sounded cheerful — smug, almost. Not sweet with despair as he’d imagined. It wasn’t even looking at him, the pathetic wretch! And why did it seem so focused to the spot to his right?

Lucien heard the scream before he saw its source. Kuradal rose behind him, sun gleaming off of her sword as she fell towards the mahjarrat.

Her feet slammed into his back, knocking him forward to the snow-covered ground. Her blade pierced his right shoulder blade as they both fell, and bright red blood sprouted from the wound. 

Lucien, struggling to his knees, let out a strangled gasp as Kuradal twisted the blade.

“This is for my father,” the slayer master hissed. “Who died like a dog at your feet, because you used some pretty magic wand you stole instead of facing him like a man.”

She pulled the sword out and walked around to his front, before thrusting it into his right leg. Lucien let out a strangled roar, and tried to stand, but was pinned down by the blade.

“This is for Turael,” she said, removing it with a flourish and spraying scarlet blood over the snow. “Day in, day out, he taught the next generation of slayer masters to fight vermin like you. And now Spria stands in his place and mourns her father, who never got his rightfully-earned years of peace.”

Teiran walked up to the kneeling mahjarrat, who was sputtering blood. She put down her whip and pulled back her fist. 

“This is for Ghommal,” Teiran said. “Who used to pat me on the head whenever he welcomed me to the Warrior’s Guild.”

_ WHAM. _ Her fist crashed into Lucien’s face, and she felt a satisfying crack under her fingers. 

She drew back again. “This is for Sloane, and the hard-earned axe you turned to dust with him.” _ WHAM _ .

“This is for Hazelmere!” she shouted, her knuckles creaking as she tightened them. “Who was the bravest, grumpiest, smartest godsdamn gnome in Gielinor! He saved my life, and died for it!”  _ WHAM! _

She pulled back her fist, panting, and unclenched her hand. She reached down and picked up her whip, and then flicked it lightly, so that abyssal energy crackled down its length. 

“This is for Cyrisus,” she growled, her voice rising in a snarl.“He went to fight you, even though he was scared, and even though he knew what was going to happen.”

Her heart was beating faster and faster. She thought, during this moment, she’d at least be happy — instead, she only felt fury. 

“And now,” she said, “because of him, I get to kill you today.”

She raised the whip. 

Lucien looked up. The sun had reached its apex; their shadows fell directly beneath them. As his blood dripped to the snow, it began to steam. 

The mahjarrat rose, his arms splayed outward. Teiran felt a hard blast hit her in the chest, and she was flung backwards into the snow.

Kuradal was hit by the blast as well; the slayer master landed several yards back with a hard slam, skidding to a stop into a snowdrift. 

"Enough!" Lucien leered. “The time for the ritual is upon us."  


Teiran struggled to her feet, cursing the dull pain throbbing in her side. The mahjarrat raised his hand, and the listless body of Jhallan flew to it. 

“No more quibbling,” he said. “The weak must be eliminated. That is our way. That is the way it must be.”

She heard the other mahjarrat shouting — Azzanadra was clasping his hands, seemingly in prayer, as the distant beacons in the tree began to glow…

Lucien had retrieved the Staff of Armadyl, holding the weapon triumphantly in the air, its green gem glittering evilly. As the sun shone coldly above, now at its zenith, he plunged the staff into Jhallan’s chest. 

Blinding light filled the clearing, and a wave of energy flowed from the slain mahjarrat. Teiran felt it pick her up and carry her in the air for a moment — judging from the panicked shouts of Idria and Akrisae, it seemed to be affecting every human nearby. 

The light dimmed, and she felt herself lowered. As she did, she looked to the other mahjarrat on the plateau.

They had… changed. Flesh had swelled from bone, though that did not make them any more human-looking. Their skin had the colour and texture of carved stone, with odd protrusions and edges to it — Sliske’s in particular looked like a leering pantomime mask. 

Azzanadra, similarly transformed, seemed shaken, though he continued to pray. 

Lucien stood in the middle of it all, his face fixed in a triumphant sneer; the wounds on his body had disappeared, as did Jhallan’s body.

“That’s more like it,” he said, flexing his fingers. 

Azzanadra rose. “You may be rejuvenated now, Zamorakian,” he said coldly. “But not for long.”

He raised his fist. “The power of Zaros compels you!”

Another flash filled the plateau — though this one, unlike the one that had accompanied Jhallan’s death, was darker, and somehow heavier. 

Teiran managed to shield her eyes this time, and she heard a popping sound from where Lucien stood.

The heavy feeling diminished, and she looked up. 

Azzanadra was breathing heavily — whatever had occurred had clearly taken some energy from him. Lucien, however, stood unscathed, his body slightly smoking.

“Hmmmm,” he said. “I nearly felt that one. Are we finished here? I have business to attend to.”

Lucien swung the staff in front of him, and its gem began to glow. At the same time, Teiran’s right hand began to burn. 

She bolted to the mahjarrat before the Stone could even start to materialize. As she got closer, she could feel the power getting closer, radiating. It fueled her sprint, already made hasty by desperation.

By the time she got there, it had fully appeared. As she launched herself towards Lucien, however, she knew it was too late. 

Lucien touched the Stone of Jas. Its glow suffused him, his eyes illuminated with glittering malice, and his body surrounded by an aura of power.

She saw it — the halo of burning energy around him, bright and hot like a dying sun. 

The mahjarrat roared triumphantly. Spells lobbed by Sliske and Azzanadra dissipated before they could even reach him. Teiran, unable to stop herself in her momentum, felt herself crash into an invisible barrier around him, solid as a brick wall. 

She crumpled to the ground, her limbs aching. Lucien flicked his wrist, and she was flung upwards, held in midair by some unseen force.

She struggled against it with all her might as Lucien stepped towards her, and she felt a bony hand close around her throat.

“‘This ends now,’ I believe is what you told me,” he said, tightening his grip around her neck. Teiran choked, black spots dancing in her vision. Lucien grinned.  


“This does end now, you pathetic little microbe,” he said. “I’ve put up with your meddling for too long. I’ll make sure you die — slowly, painfully, pitifully. I want to see the fear in your eyes as I squeeze the life out of you. And I want the other stupid mortals you brought with you to watch. Just as you did.”

_ He’d struggled, up to the last moment, his eyes filled with terror… he had reached out to her, saying words she would never know… _

She heard Kuradal shout something as she beat her fists against the invisible barrier. Lucien made a tiny, lazy movement with his staff, and the slayer master was blasted back, where she tumbled over the frozen ground and lay still. 

Teiran grabbed Lucien’s arm, trying to ease the crushing pressure on her throat. As she did, the ring of life on her left hand began to glow.  __

“Nope,” Lucien said. She felt the teleport spell spark, and it just as quickly fizzled, a teleblock spell slamming into her. 

The ring sputtered, and crumbled off her hand. Lucien squeezed tighter.

_ This is it, then, _ she thought dimly, as her vision began to darken. Her lungs burned and her whole head throbbed, though that all began to fade into a comfortable numbness. 

_ I lost. Lucien has the Stone, and he’s stronger than ever. Roland’s gone, and soon, everyone here will be, too. Cyrisus, maybe I’ll get to see you again soon… I hope so… it’s been so long… _

As the world around her faded, she could still see the glow of the Stone piercing through the darkness like a distant star in a lightless sky. 

Something in it… called to her. A song. A pluck of a lyre string. A strike of a match. A flame, dimming, dying within her, but still barely alive. She could see the stone's power around Lucien, too, burning brightly. 

_ Hold it, _ she thought muzzily.  _ Store it. Channel it. Draw from it… _

She willed the flame, small as it was, to grow.

Her hand still feebly grabbing Lucien’s arm, she began to squeeze. Though it was weak, she felt the strength in her arm begin to build. 

She squeezed harder. Under Lucien’s flesh, she felt bone creak. 

Lucien’s eyes widened in surprise, and he closed his fist even tighter around her throat. Even as her vision turned blood-red, Teiran persisted.

_ This is for him, _ she thought, letting the fury and fury and sorrow pour into that one thought, one moment, one last, desperate measure. 

She squeezed, one final time, and she heard Lucien shout as bone began to crack under her grip. The mahjarrat released her, clutching his shattered arm with a pained roar.

Teiran crumpled to the ground, gasping, as her vision burned and swam and the pain came back to her in one horrible wave. Her lungs and chest and head and eyes ached and she could do nothing but kneel and gulp air.

“You!” Lucien shrieked. “You… insolent… little… worm!”

He pointed the Staff of Armadyl at her, its green glow at full brightness. 

“You filthy little rodent! Oh, how you’ll regret doing that. I’ll turn your organs inside out and keep you alive while I do it. I’ll make you feel agony — everlasting agony that will never cease, never lessen. I’ll break every one of your bones and reassemble them, piece by painful piece. And all the while you, you unworthy bit of pond scum, will regret the day you crossed the god, the mahjarrat Lu—”

The mention of his own name was cut off by a roar — distant, but still ear-splitting. Lucien looked up, just as the fireball hit him in the face.

Teiran dived, keeping as low to the ground as possible. The flames roared above her, and even as her dragon plate armour protected her, she felt the metal heat up, searing skin where it touched her.

“False user!”

She looked up to see the dragonkin — one was perched up on the stone, smoke and steam billowing from its snout, The other two, hovering in midair, faced Lucien, whose back was now to Teiran. 

“Fool!” The one on the right screeched. “You think you can abuse the power of Jas to your own end? You will be destroyed for your insolence!”

Teiran heard the crunch of snow next to her, and somebody began to pull her up. 

“We need to get out of here,” Akrisae said, helping her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

She nodded, her throat too pained to say anything. 

“Here.” He held up a hand and cast Heal Other. Instantly, she felt the ache from her burns and injuries fade.

“Thank you,” she said. “Where’s Kuradal?”

“The blast knocked her back a fair bit. Tiffy’s getting her.”

“What about Idria?” 

“She’s right — oh, Saradomin,  _ no. _ ”

Teiran followed Akrisae’s panicked gaze. The Guardian of Armadyl was approaching the dragonkin, her arms outstretched in greeting. 

“Idria!” Teiran shouted. “Don’t!”

The guardian either didn’t hear her, or chose not to listen. 

“Guardians of the Stone,” she said, bowing. “We came here, too, to stop Lucien from abusing the artifact’s power. We could, perhaps, join forces…”

The dragonkin on the stone glanced at the others. “The little creature addresses us,” it growled. “It angers me.”

The one on the left nodded, and turned to Idria. “Anyone who stands before us,” he hissed, “should know that  _ all _ who stand before us shall suffer, now that we are unleashed.”

He opened his mouth, revealing a glow like a blast furnace burning within.

“No!” Akrisae screamed. He let go of Teiran and rushed towards Idria. However, he was too late.

The dragonkin let loose a gout of flame, which hit the Guardian point-blank. It burned where she stood for only a few seconds before dying out, and it left nothing in its wake — save for a patch of steaming, red-hot rock underneath. 

Akrisae stopped in his tracks. “Idria!” He began to run again, but Teiran stopped him. 

“Don’t,” she said, her voice shaking. “Or you’ll end up like her.”

Though Teiran still stood by the stone, the flame within her was snuffed, replaced by the chill of fear.

Lucien was shouting something at the dragonkin. In response, one of them roared, and swooped down towards the mahjarrat.

Lucien knocked it to the side. The second one dove, grabbing him by the shoulders and flying upward.

Lucien thrashed in the creature’s grip; as he did, the Staff of Armadyl clattered to the ground. 

Teiran watched, horrified. “They’re going to kill him.” She grabbed the handle of her whip.  _ No, no, this is all going wrong! _

She tried to throw herself towards the scene of the fight, but this time, Akrisae halted her. 

“Don’t start now!” He said. “You’re no more impervious to fire than Idria was!”

As she struggled to free herself of the priest's hold, the dragonkin holding Lucien dove, slamming the mahjarrat to the ground. There, the third dragonkin was waiting, staff in hand. 

With a mighty  _ thwack, _ it smashed the weapon against Lucien’s head. The green crystal shattered, sending emerald shards flying. Lucien slumped to the ground, the back of his head spattered rust-red. The dragonkin stood over him, still holding the now-bloodied staff, and roared. 

As Teiran finally broke free from Akrisae’s grip, the creature slammed the down down, impaling it into Lucien’s back. 

“No!” Teiran screamed, as another wave of energy enveloped her body. She felt herself lifted again, as she had with Jhallan’s death, hovering in midair for a moment before crashing to the ground. 

The dragonkin turned to its remaining companion; the first one, whom Lucien had tossed to the side, lay still in the snow.  


“It is done,” the dragonkin said, tossing the staff to the side. “The rage subsides.”

The other looked over the plateau, stained with blood and scorch marks. The remaining mahjarrat and humans, who had observed the scene with shaken inaction, regarded them warily. 

“The dragonkin are awakened, watchers!” it roared. “And the world shall suffer as we do. You have been warned.”

With that, it took off, followed by the other. They left behind the body of Lucien, the corpse of its fallen brethren, and a shining patch of damp, smooth rock where Idria had once stood. 


	36. While We Sleep

Teiran leapt to her feet as the dragonkin flew off. 

“Bastards!” she screamed, though her throat was raw and tired. “Lucien was _mine!_ Mine and Kuradal’s!”

They didn’t appear to hear her, and summarily ascended behind the cloud cover with a distant roar that echoed among the mountains. 

She rushed to Lucien’s body, which now lay motionless. His face was a mask of cold fear, and his still-warm blood pooled from the holes in his chest and back, blooming scarlet into the snow around him.

Akrisae caught up with her. “Teiran —”

“Shut it.” She held up a hand. “Just… don’t say anything, ok?”

 _He’s dead,_ she thought, looking down at the lifeless body. _Why don’t I feel any better? Why do I feel even worse? Why do I still feel angry?_

A slow, infuriating clapping interrupted her thoughts. 

“Well done!” Sliske said, walking up behind them. “Why, that was the most entertaining Ritual of Rejuvenation I’ve been to in _centuries._ Dinner _and_ a show? I couldn’t have asked for anything better!”

Teiran turned, her fists clenched. “What the fuck do you want?” she growled. 

Sliske smirked. “You know, I’ve heard that humans who touch the Stone of Jas either burn to ash within the minute or go on to become gods. You, however? You’ve hit some happy little medium that puts you in neither category! How strange. How _novel._ ”

He paused. “And I think you’d be just _perfect_ for my collection.”

“What!?” Teiran saw the dark energy gathering in Sliske’s hands, and she moved to get out of the way. 

Sliske, however, had predicted this — he feinted left, and flung the spell to where she’d dodged. 

“No!” Akrisae shouted. He leapt in front of her, crying out as the spell hit him full-on. Teiran watched in horror as the priest was consumed by blackness, his body hitting the ground with a hard thud. He twitched and convulsed for a moment, before lying still. 

“Akrisae!” She fell to her knees and turned him over, feeling desperately for a pulse. His face was still and lifeless; pale, drained of colour, like a corpse’s. 

“Shit, _shit_ …” She felt the veins on his wrist, searching for any sign of life. As she did, the priest's eyes opened.

They were dull, lifeless — as corpselike as the rest of him — and yet they glowed with a sickly green energy. Much like the Barrows…

“Akrisae?” Teiran said. His face remained expressionless, betraying no sign of recognition for his name. He rose, stiffly, like a puppet on strings, and joined Sliske’s side. 

Sliske regarded the wight. “In-ter-est-ing,” he said. “Hmm. It’ll be some time before I can do that spell again. Ah, well. You’ll do.”

Teiran shot to her feet, grabbing her whip as her teeth clenched in fury. 

“You… you… rotten bastard!” she howled. “Turn him back! Right now!”

Sliske shook his head. “Truly bringing back the dead is beyond my expertise, I’m afraid. Well, at least for now.” He grinned. “In the meantime, have fun with your shiny rock! I’m sure we’ll cross paths again!”

She lunged at him, just as the mahjarrat, his wights, and Akrisae dissipated into wisps of shadow, leaving nothing behind.

Teiran fell to the frozen ground, not even attempting to stop herself. 

“First Idria,” she mumbled. “Now you.”

She punched the snow, wincing as her knuckles bruised against her armoured glove. 

“Stupid!” she spat. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

A hand touched her shoulder, and she reeled around, ready to wallop whatever approached her now.

“Old bean,” Sir Tiffy said, softly, his bushy eyebrows scrunched together in sadness. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t save them,” she said. “It’s the godsdamned Chaos Temple, all over again.”

She looked back to the spot where Akrisae had landed and ragdolled like the dead. “I was useless,” she said. “And I couldn’t save them. It was all for nothing…”

Sir Tiffy patted her on the shoulder. “Not all for nothing, old girl. We have the Stone, at least.”

“The Stone…” she echoed. “What are we going to do about it?”

“We called in Thaerisk. He’s going to teleport it somewhere safe,” the knight said. “He, er, says you need to think of a number between one and five. Don’t say it aloud. Just think it.”

Teiran looked up to see the druid standing by the Stone, looking at her expectantly. 

_Four_ , she thought. _Four is fine. Not that it matters._

The druid nodded, and touched the Stone, which vanished. As it did, she felt the last bit of warmth drain from her, leaving her hollowed out again. She slumped to the ground, wincing as another wave of pain hit her, her various ignored injuries lining up and demanding to be felt.

“It’s done, then,” she said. “Where are the other mahjarrat? Where’s Kuradal?”

“The others have departed. The dragonkin have shaken them, it seems. Kuradal…”

He pointed to where Lucien had fallen, a short distance away. The slayer master was kneeling beside the body, her face buried in her hands. 

Teiran rose, painfully, and slowly walked over to her. As she got closer, Kuradal turned towards her, and Teiran could see her face was streaked with tears.

“Lucien was my kill,” she said, her voice thick. “Our kill. The blast — it knocked me unconscious. When I came to, the knight told me about how the dragonkin…” She choked, unable to finish her sentence, and turned back to the corpse.

“Father,” she whispered. “I have failed you.”

Teiran stared at the body numbly. It began to snow again, dusting the corpse with a thin blanket of white, concealing the now-frozen bloodstains and looking for all the world like a burial shroud.

Teiran took a breath. Then, she pulled her leg back, though it protested, and kicked Lucien’s corpse, shaking off the snow cover. Then she pulled back and kicked it again, and again, and again. 

“Fuck you!” she screamed. “Fuck you!” You’ve taken everything — _everything_ — from me!”

She felt something snap under her boot. Still, she continued.

“You took my house!” she screamed. “You took my friends! You took _him_!”

The body jerked and twitched as she continued her assault on it. Even as her leg ached, she continued. 

“You took Idria! You took Akrisae! And you took away my once fucking chance at vengeance!”

She pulled back for another blow, until a hand on her arm stopped her.

“Teiran,” Azzanadra said. “Stop it. He’s already dead.”

She whipped around. The Zarosian’s rejuvenated face was almost as unnerving as his skeletal one — though it betrayed his expression better, and she could see that he was concerned. 

She sighed. “I was supposed to kill him,” she said. “ _We_ were. And it was going to make me feel better.”

Azzanadra shook his head. “It doesn’t,” he said. “Trust me.”

“Oh, how would you know?” she snapped. “You live for thousands of years and spend your time plotting how to kill eachother.”

His face darkened. “I understand that you are upset, human,” he said. “But I would be careful with your words.” 

“I’ll say what I like,” she spat. “Your little beacon trip was awfully helpful, by the way.”

He ignored the retort, stepping away from the corpse. “I must depart now,” he said, icily. “Consider yourself lucky that you escaped this all unscatched. Beware the dragonkin, adventurer. They will return. And they will not show mercy.”

 _Yeah,_ she thought bitterly, as Azzanadra teleported away. _Add it to the pile. Behind Sliske, and… oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I even care anymore._

Sir Tiffy approached her, his limbs stuff with cold. “We should go, old bean,” he said, as gently as he could. “The other knights have returned. I can take us to Falador.”

She sighed. “Yeah.”

She looked over to Kuradal, who was still hunched over the corpse. 

“Do you — ?” Kuradal silenced her with a raised hand. 

“Leave me,” she said. “I’ll find my own way home.”

“Ok.” Teiran put her hand on the old knight’s shoulder. “Take us back, Tiffy.”

As the scenery shimmered around her, the last thing she heard was the biting winter wind, howling in the dead, empty trees of the far and desolate north. 

* * *

As her feet hit the ground, the first thing Teiran noticed was the darkness. She looked around the dim streets and realized something was off. 

“Sir Tiffy,” She said. “Your coordinates are wonky. This is Draynor. Not Falador.”

As she took in her surroundings, she realized that it wasn’t the Draynor Village she remembered.

Buildings lay in ruin, their roofs punched full of holes and scorch marks. Off in the direction of the marketplace she could see a pillar of black smoke rising. 

“What in RuneScape…?” She stepped forward. “Did the Wise Old Man decide to do a practice run of the Wizard’s Tower raid?”

Something moved in the corner of her eye. She turned, and spotted a familiar green skillcape, worn by a man wielding a massive axe.

“It can’t be…” she muttered, not believing her eyes. “Sloane? What are you doing here?”

The warrior turned around. His eyes were blank and ghostly, and his face was painted with sorrow. 

“There is no victory,” he said. His voice was _wrong_ — hollow, empty, echoing, as though he said it from far away, or a tomb. 

Teiran ran towards him. However, as she reached the strength master, he collapsed into nothing, his axe clattering to the ground.

Teiran stepped back, her heart beating faster as her stomach twisted unpleasantly. “What in Guthix’s —”

A sound from the village courtyard caught her ear. She saw Kuradel, weeping over Lucien’s corpse, which was splayed out on the ground and still covered in snow. Beside her, Duradel and Turael, both as blank-eyed as Sloane had been, looked on. Duradel glanced up, meeting Teiran’s gaze. 

“We were already dead,” he said. The two men spoke as one, both empty-sounding. Before Teiran could reply, they collapsed into ash, leaving Kuradal, still weeping, and Teiran alone in the square.

“No, no, no, _shit!_ ” Teiran was shaking now, and she smelled something burning — the pillar of smoke over the marketplace grew thicker, now black and viscous. 

She raced out of the courtyard towards the fire, nearly bowling over a gnome that stood in her path. 

“Watch — Hazelmere?”

The gnome looked up. “Death comes from dark skies,” he said, dully. “Tell me, human — can you outrun fate?”

He vanished, leaving behind only the roar of the nearby fire to fill the silence he left. Teiran stumbled forward, her mind reeling, as a wave of nausea enveloped her. 

_This isn’t real. This isn’t real,_ she told herself. _This can’t be happening. Get it together. Get it together!_

She turned the corner. There, in front of the bank, Idria and Akrisae stood side by side, their backs to her. 

Akrisae turned. His flesh still had the pale pallor of a corpse’s. But his expression — was it sorrow? Regret? She couldn’t tell, for he turned back towards the fire and walked into it, disappearing in the inferno. 

“Idria...” Teiran reached out to the guardian, dreading what would happen. As she touched her robe, Idria became engulfed with flames, the fire consuming her in a burning pillar.

Teiran resisted the urge to vomit. “What the hell is going on here?!” she shouted, unsure at what in particular. “Whoever is doing this… stop it. Stop! I’ve been through enough.”

“Old bean?” Tiffy said, jogging up next to her. “We need to get out of here. Whatever’s going on here, it’s too dangerous to stay long.”

She was about to reply when she heard a growl from above, and a horribly familiar popping sound. 

“Tiffy!” she screamed. “Duck!”

The old man had no time to move when the fireball collided with him, immolating him in an instant, just as Idria had been a moment before. His armour pinged and hissed as it melted in the heat.

Teiran jumped back, the heat burning her face as she watched the Temple Knight's remains collapse into ash onto the ground. Some strong wind began to scatter them across the cobblestones. 

She looked up. One of the dragonkin was hovering over her, its wings scattering sparks towards her.

“Stonetoucher,” it hissed, smoke billowing from its sharp-toothed mouth. “Give in to the power of the dragonkin.”

She coughed from the smoke, her eyes watering. Unable to reply with words, she instead flashed a rude hand gesture. 

The dragonkin roared. “Your end will come at our hands!” 

Teiran cleared the smoke from her lungs. “Go ahead. Try to kill me. I need a new decorative head for the living room.”

“Insolent! Defiant!” The dragonkin screeched. “Not for long. This was just a vision of what is to come, stonetoucher. Return to reality and await your fate!”

With that, he opened his mouth, revealing the fire boiling within. She was engulfed, burning, _burning_ , and she felt her flesh char and the marrow in her bones boil and there was nothing but heat, heat and fire and ash…

* * *

_She opened her eyes._

_There it was again; the desert, the sand, the stars. The wind, like the chill of death._

_A figure stood in front of her; even from behind, she could recognize him, and she felt her chest twist with a pain no knife could match._

_He hadn’t changed. His robes fluttered in the wind; his dragon helm was at his left side, and he held his abyssal whip at his right. She didn’t know where he was looking — if it was at the mountains in the distance, stretched out in the shape of a fallen behemoth, or if he was simply avoiding her gaze._

_“Cyrisus,” she said. It hurt to say it. It even hurt to look at him. All it did was remind her of what she’d been robbed of._

_“Teiran.” His voice, too, sounded hollow and echoing, like the other fallen heroes’. Was it sadness? Or exhaustion? She wondered if it was some other trick of the dragonkin, but it sounded too, painfully real._

_He turned. She could only see one side of his face, but it was wet with tears._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_He turned back to the mountain and began to walk away. She tried to run after him, to grab him, to hold him, but the sand slipped under her. She tumbled forward as she watched his figure disappear in the gloom, and there was nothing but darkness and desert and stars and she was falling, falling……_

* * *

Teiran opened her eyes and screamed. 

The window panes of Falador rattled dangerously. A flowerpot Wyson had been holding shattered in his hands and, in the Temple Knight library, Lady Table dropped a stack of books and cursed.

“Old bean!” Tiffy shouted, unclamping his hands from his ears. “What in Saradomin’s brilliant blue beard was that all about?”

Teiran whipped her head around, taking in the scenery of Falador while her heart hammered in her chest. “Fire,” she said, her thoughts in a panicked jumble. “You… you...Idria… Akrisae… all the others! I saw Sloane! And Duradel! The dragonkin!”

She grabbed Sir Tiffy by the shoulders. “Draynor! You were there. Didn’t you see it?”

The knight shook his head. “No, old bean. We just got back from the plateau, remember?”

“You… you didn’t see it?” she asked, bewilderedly. 

“See what?”

Teiran shook her head. “Never mind.” _It was all a vision, didn’t it say so?_ She thought. _Some dragonkin mumbo-jumbo… all in my head…_

The fire had felt so _real_ , though. She suddenly thought of the flames in its mouth, pointed at her, the heat growing greater and greater….

She absentmindedly touched her face. As she did so, she was surprised to feel wetness, and looked down at her hand. Why was it smeared with tears? And why was it stained with greyness?

Tiffy patted her on the shoulder. “Calm down, old gal,” he said, reassuringly. “You’re probably jolly well rattled from everything that happened on the plateau. Here, I’ll teleport you back home.”

“No!” Teiran shouted, waved her hands. “No. No teleports. Not even a home one. I’ll walk.”

The knight gave her a quizzical look. “Back to Ardougne? Isn’t that a bit far?”

“I suppose.” She took a deep breath. “But I need time to think.”

* * *

By the time Teiran got home, it was dark, and the various loans she’d taken on her body throughout the day were now lining up and cracking their knuckles in meaningful, inevitable ways.

Marianne had run up and hugged her the moment she’d stepped through the portal, of course, and Teiran did her best to smile through it.

“It’s good to see you too. Ahhhhh,” she winced. “The ribs, Marianne. The ribs.”

The maid let her go, stammering an apology. “Do you want a restore mix, miss?”

“Please,” she said. The maid departed, and returned by the time Teiran had been able to make her way to the parlour and collapse on the couch. The bank, unlike in Rimmington, was right around the corner, a convenience that Teiran was now grateful for.

Teiran gulped down the fishy potion and let out a sigh. The maid sat down next to her. 

“I’m glad, miss,” Marianne said, quietly. “That you’re back safe, I mean.”

Teiran replied with a wordless groan, sinking back on the couch. 

“Miss?” The maid said. “Is everything ok? _Did_ everything go ok?”

What did she tell her? That it all went to hell? 

Teiran sighed again. “The Stone’s safe,” she said, settling for what truths she was willing to disclose for now. “Lucien’s dead.” _Though not by any of my doing._

“Oh,” Marianne said. “That’s good, right?”

“Yeah.” She got up, though her limbs protested. “I’m going to bed.”

“So soon?”

“I need the rest.” She took off the dragon helm, wincing as it rubbed against the burns that hadn’t yet healed. “It’s been a long bloody day.”

* * *

Teiran lay on her bed, the helm now resting on her chest. The dragonkin’s fire had scorched it — though she’d been able to clean off most of the soot, one section on the left side was now a little darker and duller than the rest of the metal. She suspected it would probably stay that way forever. 

She sighed. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the glow of the fire, searing and inevitable, roaring towards her. 

_Marianne was right,_ she thought. _Lucien’s dead. The Stone’s hidden. The dragonkin… have buggered off elsewhere, at least._

Gielinor was safe, she told herself. For now. They’d won. 

_But why,_ she thought, as she stared at her blurred reflection in the helm’s red metal, _does it feel like I’ve still lost in the end?_


	37. The Adventurer

“It was supposed to be easy, you know.”

Teiran looked up at the statue, its newly-hewn marble gleaming in the sunshine. The artist _had_ captured a rather good likeness; his expression was fierce, and his whip was mid-swing, which was a rather clever bit of masonry, she reflected.

There were little details that were missed, however. The scar on his forehead, which he said he’d gotten from a fight with one of the Handelmort boys when he was ten. The curve of his chin was a little off, and his beard was a little short. Still, she granted, they’d done a very good job.

Falador Park was as beautiful as ever. Wyson, having come across an unexpected windfall, had gone the extra mile — the garden plots positively groaned with the weight of all the flowers. 

Wyson had chosen a different bloom for each statue around the pond: Hollyhock for Ghommal; ivy for Sloane; mountain flowers for Turael; blue vine blossom for Duradel; dwellberry for Hazelmere; and for Cyrisus, snapdragon. 

All was quiet in the park, save for the burbling of the fountains, as well as the repeated interrogation of one of the gardeners by a young girl, asking if there was, indeed, a giant mole beneath the park, and, if so, she could go down and slay it. 

Teiran took a breath, inhaling the scent of the grass and blooming flowers, as she sat cross-legged in front of the memorial. 

“It was supposed to be easy,” she said again, quietly. “I was supposed to kill Lucien. Get my revenge. Make everything right again. Feel… normal again. Or, at least, feel better.”

She paused. “Why don’t I?”

She gripped the envelope as tightly as she could without wrinkling it. It was well-worn around the edges now; even the ink on the back was starting to fade a little. 

She turned it over. Slowly, delicately, she broke the seal. 

The envelope contained two things, the first of which was a choc-ice wrapper, slightly crumpled and tattered-looking. 

“The whole time,” she muttered, smiling. “You held on to the same damn scrap from your pocket when we first met?”

She turned it over. It had long since lost its chocolatey residue, but she imagined she could smell it in any case.

She pulled the second item from the envelope: a letter, folded in three with both sides covered in tiny, tidy handwriting. This, she read slowly and carefully. 

_Teiran,_

_I hope to gods you’re not reading this — well, I suppose if you are, then it means that you made it out safely, which I can rest easily on._

_I’m sorry. That it had to end this way. I can only hope that I died saving you — or, at least, giving you a chance to run._

_I was stupid, not listening to you. I should have, honestly. Please don’t feel guilty that you couldn’t stop me. There’s no curing stupid, I suppose. Or stubborn._

_I hope you’re doing ok. I set my things in order so that you won’t have to worry about a place to live. You’re over often enough that it’s practically your house, in any case. Kuradal can take care of Roland, so you won’t have to worry about him, either._

_It’s funny, Teiran. I thought I’d be more scared going into this, knowing I might not be able to come back. Ten months ago, even the idea of an imp stabbing me with a toothpick would send me knock-kneed. But now? I feel at peace. I keep thinking that if you can make it out of this whole mess ok, then I’ll be fine._

_I hope that doesn’t hurt you. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, any more than I can imagine losing you. It’s too horrible for me to think about. I’m sorry I’m making you go through that. I truly, truly am._

_You’ve changed my life in so many ways, Teiran. You happening upon me in that cave, right when I was about to starve to death, was a start. But you didn’t just do that. You believed in me. You made me realize how blind I was — that I wasn’t worthless. You showed me a world I’d been too scared to even contemplate._

_You helped me become a hero — something I’d never even dreamed I could be._

_You’re the most remarkable person I’ve ever met (and I’ve met quite a few remarkable people). You’re sharp, you’re stubborn, you’re witty, you’re kind (even if you don’t like to admit it) and you’re merciless…_

_I’m glad I got to know you, even if it was only for a little while. These past ten months have been the happiest of my entire life._

_Thank you._

_I love you, more than anything else in the world. You’ve changed me for the better. Please don’t be too sad that I’m gone — I’ve done everything I’ve really wanted to do, except spend more time with you._

_Live your life. Go on without me. Fight monsters. Find new things. Meet new people. Do what makes you happy. And, maybe, we can see each other again. One day._

_With all my affection, and gratitude,_

_\- Cyrisus_

Teiran sniffed, wiping her cheeks so that she didn’t get water on the letter. 

“You soppy, wordy bastard,” she mumbled. “Three months you’ve been gone, and you manage to make me cry like this again.”

She took a breath, her chest aching slightly as she did. The clock in Falador Square struck four, and a soft breeze rippled through the park, stirring the flowers in a gentle sway. 

The young girl from before had managed to procure a shovel. Wyson, only now discovering her efforts to get into the mole tunnels, was beginning to launch into a conniption. 

Teiran folded the letter and put it back into the envelope, alongside the choc-ice wrapper. She tucked it into her left shirt pocket, pressing it close to her chest, making sure it was secure. 

She looked up to the statue, smiling sadly. 

“We’ll meet again,” she said. “Someday. Somehow. I know it. I’ll do my best to live in the meantime. I’ll live the life you couldn’t.”

She took a breath. “And when I can, I’ll find you again. You know I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap for Part 2, folks. Thank you to everyone who's been with this wild ride since the start. It's halfway through, but the time has flown.
> 
> A massive thank you to fennfics and DiAnima for their beta reading, and to everyone who's given me commentary and feedback. It's been hugely rewarding to write for you. 
> 
> I'll be taking a week-long break, and then it's back at it. Until then, watch out for other oneshots. 
> 
> <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtlgYxa6BMU>


	38. Start

Life… moved on, as it did. Change came slowly, and all at once. There were always bigger, stranger monsters to fight. There were always more quests that needed to be completed. Always something undone, demanding finishing. 

Things became mundane again. Teiran stopped wearing her dragon plates, after awhile, and perhaps after a little longer than she needed to. Upgrading armour was par for the course, obviously — the move from bronze to iron to steel to mithril to rune was a common one, and she had, in the past, raced towards each milestone with fervour and triumph. 

But giving up her dragon armour had felt like giving up on an old friend. It had been through a lot. And the new stuff on the market seemed to be all nonfunctionally glittery or lucky or whatever, traits which she preferred to avoid if at all possible.

She’d yet to give up on her abyssal whip. Someone at the Grand Exchange had tried to explain to her that it wasn’t as effective as a two-hander, and that the goblin by the entrance would be able to get her something better, but by that time, Teiran had turned around and left the conversation. 

She never was able to find Roland, even after spending weeks scouring Ardougne and questioning every person near the river. In the end, she just locked up the dungeon, and declined to visit Kuradal, even when Sumona kept making passive-aggressive comments about taking on stronger slayer assignments. 

Life moved on. On one particularly lazy morning, on her way to Catherby to go fishing (because, no matter how much the wizards went on about how great the lodestone networks were, sometimes the best way to get around was by your feet) she’d run into an archaeologist asking her for assistance in investigating some old temple. 

“Sure,” she’d said. After all, there were rewards involved, he had told her. And what was the worst that could be down there?

And she pushed open the doors and found some artefacts and opened up, as some would say, a tin of worms. 

Life moved on. And, after that point, the speed of it turned breakneck.

* * *

Teiran stared at her hands. The blue-tinted light of the bullseye lantern next to her made them ghostlier in shade than usual, which she figured was fitting. The only sound in the caves was the trickle of water from the next chamber over, and the soft, airy whoosh of the light creatures passing overhead.

“Juna,” she said, looking up. “What’s happened to me?”

The snake, who was dangling from the bar separating the two caverns like a great scaly curtain, bowed her head; perhaps in sorrow, perhaps in reverence. 

“You have been honored,” she said. “Guthix chose you to protect the world he loved most. You were chosen to be one of us because you showed not only a great talent, but also an understanding of balance — and your potential to be much more.” **  
**

Teiran, however, shook her head. “There are better people out there than me, Juna. Stronger people. Wiser people. Me? I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

She looked at her hands again. They shook, ever so slightly, from what she told herself was the chill of the caves.

“Why me?”

* * *

_ “Why me?” she had asked, her voice shaking. Why wouldn’t it be? She watched the great green god slumped over in front of her, his eyes clouded with pain and sorrow as he bled out, while the mahjarrat whose smile sent a chill down her spine pulled the staff from the god’s chest and laughed. Even here, on a peaceful bit of floating rock in a place that didn’t really exist, she couldn’t scrub that image from her mind. _

_ “I brought this upon you,” she continued. “I... I didn’t intend for this to happen. I wanted to protect you. But I just brought Sliske right to you.” _

_ Guthix had smiled, sadly. As a god, when he’d been as big as a mountain, he’d looked solemn. As a naragi, when he was the size of a man, he simply looked tired. _

_ “You had good intentions,” he said. “And you put an honourable defense. I have seen your bravery and your talent within the temple. Gielinor must be protected by a mortal — one that can oppose the power of the divine.” _

_ “But why…” she gestured to herself. “This? Why me? I can fight, sure. But I’m not a priest.”  _

_ He nodded. “Tell me,” he said. “What do you think of the gods?” _

_ She’d scowled. “I think they’re a bunch of power-hungry, nosey, smarmy bastards who’d sooner use their own followers as cannon fodder than help them, and that ought to keep their noses out of other people’s business.” _

_ The god nodded again. “My point exactly.” _

_ “I don’t think you understand,” Teiran said, beginning to pace anxiously. “Protect Gielinor? Me? I have the self-preservation instincts of an impulsive red chinchompa. I can barely protect myself!” _

_ She gripped the ring on the amulet cord around her neck, warm from her body heat. “I can’t even protect the people I want to.” _

_ Guthix gave her another sad smile. “The power I have given you will aid you. The judgement that you already have shall guide you.” _

_ “But…” she searched for an argument. “You’re a god. You can’t die.” _

_ He sighed. “It can be done. Sliske wielded a god-killer, and he knew it.” _

_ “I…” she started, words dying in her throat. “I’m sorry.” _

_ “Do not be.” Guthix turned to the horizon, washed in a setting glow of a sun Teiran couldn’t see. “I have wanted to die for a long time. I knew it when the alarm was first raised; I could have stopped him, if I wished to. But I am tired. More tired than you can imagine.” _

_ He wandered, then, over to the stone flat slab in the middle of the rock; though Teiran couldn’t imagine it to be comfortable, he sat on it with exhausted relish. _

_ “Gielinor — RuneScape, as some of you humans call it — it has changed much since I last woken,” he said. “Even if I cannot see it, I can sense it. And I fear it will change even more, for the worse. But I still love it, even if it is for the memory of it once was, and for what I hope it can be.” _

_ It was a fearful look he gave her now; fear and sorrow, and Teiran recognized it from what had been nearly a year ago, but was still painfully, rawly recent.  _

_ “Please,” he said, his eyes pleading. “Guard it. Prevent the gods from returning, and ravaging it with their selfish interests. Keep this land alive, before it’s too late.” _

_ “I….” she started. “I don’t know if I can.” _

_ “You can,” he said. “I know you will.” _

_ With that, he lay down on the slab. “It is over. My family waits for me.” _

_ “Wait. Wait!” Teiran shouted. “You can’t go. You need to tell me what to do!” _

_ His breathing became ragged and shallow. “Remember… your purpose…” he rasped. _

_ “What purpose?” She yelled, grabbing his cold hands. “Guthix, I don’t know what to do! I don’t know how to save Gielinor! I’m telling you, you have the wrong person!” _

_ The world was darkening as night fell. She felt coldness set in, like the chill of the grave.  _

_ “Forget… me…” the dying god whispered. _

_ “No! No, I can’t! You can’t leave like this!” she shouted. “Why me? How am I supposed to save anything? Wake up! Wake up!” _

_ Guthix sighed and closed his eyes, just as everything around them faded to black. _

* * *

_ Everything after that had been a blur, really. She remembered waking up in an empty chamber with the body of a dead god in front of her. She remembered the shock of energy passing through her, leaving her feeling like she’d simultaneously learned the Lunar Spellbook and Ancient Magicks the morning after a stint in a Karamjan bar, though with nothing to show for it but a splitting headache.  _

_ She remembered saying some very rude things to Azzanadra. She remembered the shouting, and arguing, the white hot panic that had seized her as she tried to comprehend what had just happened…. _

_ She remembered calling Saradomin, after he materialized not five minutes after Guthix’s corpse had begun to cool, a blue-headed self-righteous smarmy old turkey vulture. The look on his face had, in that dark time, given her some satisfaction.  _

_ She remembered going home and working her way through most of the Zamorakian vintage, year 165. Might as well remember the Fifth Age in its ruin, after all.  _

_ And she remembered lying in bed, drunkenly staring up at the ceiling, and feeling utterly, totally, horribly, irrevocably lost. _

* * *

The snake flicked her tongue, her eyes sad and glittering in the faint lamp-light. “We must trust in the wisdom Guthix had to choose you,” she said. “For it is ineffable, and infinite.”

Teiran snorted. “Yep. Real infinite wisdom, choosing a schmuck like me.”

She scrutinized her hands. “Shouldn’t these be… glowing, or something?” she said. “I don’t feel any different.”

“The power he gave you is dormant,” Juna replied. “It will come to you in your time of greatest need. It is also ever-present; it shall protect you from the gods’ power whenever they may attempt to exert it upon you.”

“Oh.” She put her hands down. “I should have figured. I’m kind of new at this, I guess.”

“I cannot blame you. It is not an easy thing to acclimate to.” She adjusted her coils, twisting and pulling them over the bar like a scaly waterfall. “And you, among us, are the only human at this time, which perhaps makes it even lonelier. I do not envy your lot.”

Juna continued. “But you will grow used to it, as I did, over the centuries. There was —” 

Teiran’s head snapped up. “Wait, centuries? Humans don’t live that long, Juna.”

The snake gave her a strange look. “Human may you be, you are now a Guardian of Guthix. Time will not be the cause of your demise.”

“I can’t die of old age?” Teiran said, a dreadful thought beginning to take root. “But I can still die from… other things, right? Cres died, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Juna said, and Teiran felt a spark of hope. “After many thousands of years, and after his duty to Guthix had been fulfilled.”

“But…” she stammered. “What does that mean for me?”

“Your fate is tied to what you protect,” Juna said. “You shall live as long as Gielinor; or, at least, as long as it needs protecting. Even if you are slain in battle, you shall persist as long as your duties still stand.”

“And how long,” Teiran asked carefully, “would that be?”

“I do not know. Millenia, perhaps.”

Teiran bolted upright. “Juna, this can’t be right,” she said, her voice rising in panic. “I… I can’t just not…  _ die. _ It’s not like I’m a god or anything.”

“No. You are not. Far from it.” 

Teiran breathed a sigh of relief, until Juna continued.

“You are a Guardian of Guthix, bound to your duty,” she said. “And, for all intents and purposes, functionally immune to death.”

“I…” she started. Her face paled, and she began to breathe faster. She stared past the serpent, her eyes unseeing as she turned the statement over in her head. 

Then, slowly, she turned away from the snake and walked towards the rift separating the cave systems, over which light creatures danced and floated in the darkness. 

Juna watched her go. As she watched the adventurer approach the edge without slowing, she noticed something. 

“Teiran!” she shouted. “You forgot your lamp! The light creatures won’t carry you if you don’t —”

The snake paused. “Oh.”

* * *

Teiran opened her eyes. Her whole body hurt, though perhaps rather less than falling down a canyon of indescribable depth should have. 

She looked down. She was pretty sure the Lumbridge Swamp caves didn’t have any nice carpeting on any of the floors.

She looked up. She was pretty sure they didn’t contain any desks, either. Or any menacing, 10-foot-tall hooded skeletons with glowing blue eye sockets, either. 

“Hello,” the hooded figure said. “I didn’t expect you to drop in so soon. Shall I put the kettle on?”

“Death?” Teiran sat up, breathing a sigh of relief. “I really am dead, then. Where is this place?”

“My office,” Death said. “And you’re not dead. Not for long, anyways. Will you be wanting your possessions back?”

“Wait. What do you mean, ‘not for long?’”

“It is not yet your time.” Death picked up an hourglass on his desk, filled with green sand. It had a strong glow about it; even though the top bulb was about halfway full, she noticed nothing fell through it. 

“I shall return you to the world of the living shortly,” Death continued, setting the hourglass down again. “Do you have any questions?”

“Yes, actually.” She got up, walked calmly to the desk, and slammed her hands down it so hard on it that it shook.

“What the hell!?” She yelled. “I can’t be immortal! I’m… I’m a lousy human! I’m supposed to live for, what, 70 years or something? I probably had only a decade or so to go, considering my line of work!”

He cocked his head to the side. “Curious. Most mortals would be joyful at the prospect of immortality. Many strive for it,” he said. “However, it cannot be helped. Fate binds you to life, and to protecting the land. Even if I tried to reap your soul, I would be unable to.”

Teiran shook her head, her heart beating faster and faster. “No, no. You don’t  _ understand _ ,” she said, desperately. “I… I’ve got to die. I’ve got someone waiting for me. I can’t leave him there.”

_ This is some big mistake. It’s just a prank. Or maybe a punchcard? Die 10 times and get one free? I can’t  _ not _ die. That would be ridiculous.  _

_ That would mean…. _ She shook the thought from her head. It was too horrible to really think about.

Despite being a skull, Death managed to look apologetic. “I’m sorry. It is Guthix’s will.”

“Shit,  _ shit _ …” she muttered. “I… I died this time, didn’t I? Aren’t you supposed to take me to the afterlife? Or something?”

She looked around the room wildly. “There’s got to be a way. I’ve got to get there!”

Death shook his head. “The afterlife… is Icthlarin's domain. And even then, he simply escorts souls there. What lies beyond that is for the dead only, which you are not among.”

“Please,” she begged, her eyes stinging. “Please. I need to get there. I need to tell someone something.”

“I cannot. Even I am not allowed there.”

“Then…” she scanned the office again, and spotted a large door behind his desk. It creaked ominously, and deemed it to contain some dark secret. She had a feeling as to what it may have contained therein.

“You can’t stop me, then!” She yelled, and she bolted for the door. The reaper tried to grab at her, but she ducked under his skeletal hand. Past the desk, behind the chair, jump over Muncher, who leapt up and began to bark, grab the handle, wrench it open, and run off into…

A broom. A rather dusty one, as it were, and ironically covered in spiderwebs. 

“This is…” she said, taking in the contents of the tiny, stuffy room. “A mop closet?”

Death grabbed Teirain’s shoulders and pulled her back, shutting the door firmly in front of her. “A dark realm, and one that I do not broach,” he said. “The spiders of the house are quite aware of it; though the Edicts may have been nullified, I still abide by them.” 

She turned around, her eyes glimmering with betrayal. “I’ll find it,” she said. “The afterlife. I don’t care if it’s impossible. I  _ need _ to get there.”

Death narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

“No!” There it was — the flame of fury. She hadn’t felt it in awhile; not properly, anyways. She welcomed it, like a cold man welcomes the strike of a match. “I will not sit down! And I’m not going to accept this ‘not dying’ bullshit!”

“I insist.” Death snapped his fingers, and she found herself in a chair facing his desk. She went to get up, but Death gave her a Look. 

“I understand your distress,” he said, measuredly. “It is not an easy thing to consider, or comprehend. I went through something similar when I was first made a guardian. I learned to adapt and embrace my role. I learned that I had a duty to the souls of Gielinor — just as you have a duty to Gielinor itself.”

She didn’t reply at first, instead digging her nails into the palm of her hand and looking down, away from Death’s endless, azure stare. “You don’t get it,” she mumbled, trying to keep the tears in her eyes from spilling over. “He’s there. Over on the other side. Wherever he is.”

Teiran brushed her hand over the pocket in her shirt, feeling that the folded letter was there. She always carried it with her, as scared as she was of it getting burned or wet or stolen. She’d read and re-read it so many times that she practically memorized it, in any case.

“What if he’s waiting right now?” she said. “Right now, at this moment? He doesn’t know that I can’t go there. That I’ll never go there. I need to tell him.”

Death sighed heavily. “I cannot help you. I’m sorry.” He got up from the desk and walked to her, placing a skeletal hand on her shoulder. “You are… distressed. I understand why. And you have a right to be. But you cannot let your duties fall to the wayside.”

He glanced to one of the side wings of his office, where hundreds of hourglasses sat. Sand hissed through them, sounding like one giant sigh — constant and hushed. 

“I’ll find a way,” Teiran said. “Someway. Somehow. Gielinor’s got magic that can turn people into frogs and summon monsters made of dessert. There’s  _ got  _ to be a method.”

“I would discourage you from trying. It will be a fruitless endeavor.” Something chimed in the depths of Death’s robe. He reached in and removed a small hourglass, the sand of which was running quite low.

“I must be off,” he said, tiredly. “It seems that someone is about to pull the Edgeville lever. Again.” 

He put away the hourglass and retrieved his scythe from the umbrella stand near the door. “When I depart, you will find yourself relocated to the Lumbridge courtyard with your possessions. There is normally a fee, but this time, I will waive it.”

He turned to go, but then seemed to remember something. He looked to Teiran, and the pinpoints of light in sockets narrowed. 

“Guardian,” he said. “You understand that though you are unconstrained by litmus of death, this does not mean that you should do anything reckless. Do you understand?” 

“Reckless? Me?” she said, as innocently as she could. “Who would ever think such a thing?”


	39. Impetuous

The door opened with an explosive thud, thwacking against the opposite wall and leaving a spiderwebbed crack in the marble where the handle jutted out. Saradomin looked up from his place of repose on the throne to see a very angry-looking adventurer, her leg still mid-kick as the door swayed on its hinges. 

She was wearing a nice hat. 

“And who,” the god said, raising a divine eyebrow, “allowed you in here?”

“I let myself in.” Teiran stepped aside of the doorframe, revealing several White Knights in various states of groaning pain sprawled throughout the next room. 

She marched up to the throne and pointed at the god’s face. “Wand of Resurrection. You’ve heard of it?”

Saradomin snapped his fingers. When the woman in front of him failed to teleport to a small island south of Draynor, he scowled. 

“The protection Guthix granted you still stands,” he noted dryly. “How irksome.” 

Teiran scowled in return. “Go on. Try to turn me into a mushroom next. That’ll go down just  _ great. _ ”

“I could summon a battalion of guards with a mere shout,” Saradomin said. “They would be upon you in seconds. You may be the World Guardian, but you are only one person. I do not wish for bloodshed. Leave.”

She snorted. “Go on. Summon away. They can try, sure. It would be a shame, because these are rather nice carpets. But even if they succeed in killing me, I’ll be back. And I’ll be angrier than I am now.”

They stared at each other for another minute, not breaking eye contact as she waited for him to call her bluff. Instead, he sighed. 

“What do you want?” he asked. “I’m rather busy. Zamorak is planning his return, and preparations should be made.”

_ Oh, you sure look busy, _ she thought hotly.  _ Sitting in that stupid carved chair, looking pretentious.  _

“I already told you. I’m here for the Wand of Resurrection. You know, horn-thingie, can bring back the dead, all that jazz? I know you have it.”

“And how would you know about it?” he said, narrowing his eyes. 

“You don’t think the Edgeville monks gossip? Especially when you happen to touch down in their garden and burn half their vegetable patch. I don’t think I’ll ever hear the end of  _ that _ from Brother Althric…”

“That was not information you were privy to.”

“And yet here I am. I’m surprised that you didn’t recruit me for your little raid on the Kinshra. I’ve infiltrated their fortress before, you know.”

Saradomin’s face turned a faint shade of violet. “Throwing a cabbage in an old hag’s cauldron does not make you an expert at espionage!”

“Oh, you saw that? I thought it was rather clever of me. I haven’t seen that knight you had helping you — the one with the scar. What happened to him?”

“He is… occupied,” the god said carefully. 

“Fine. Back to business. Where’s the wand?”

“I do not have it.”

Teiran’s jaw clenched. “Don’t lie to me!” she snarled. “I know you retrieved it from the fortress! I searched the place myself!” 

_ That damn witch put up a hell of a fight, _ she thought.  _ I’ll be picking skeleton bits out of the whip for weeks. _

“Sir Owen managed to retrieve it,” Saradomin said icily. “However, its properties are… more limited than I foresaw. The resurrection itself is an incomplete process; one riddled with corruption.”

Her heart sank. “So it doesn’t work?”

“Not as intended. In any case, I may have… accidentally destroyed it.”

“What?!” She bellowed. “It’s an artifact of great power or whatever. You’re a god! Aren’t you supposed to know how to use these things?”

“A presumptive notion. I am great in my wisdom, but even that has its limits.”

_ Unlike your ego. _ “What in Gielinor did you use it on? Trying to bring back every White Knight since the Third Age?”

“Ha! A naive and romantic scheme. What point in that would there be? I have plenty of white knights to spare here and now. No, I was attempting to restore the centaur race.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“It is by my fault that the centaurs have been driven to extinction,” he said. “I wish to repair that misdeed. And, of course, they have been long loyal to me, and will no doubt be good allies to have in the upcoming conflict —”

“Wait. Wait,” she said, her fists slowly clenching. “You’re telling me that you wanted to use the wand to bring back an entire race, clearing yourself of guilt for a horrible thing you did, while also recruiting them for use as… cannon fodder?”

Saradomin’s face turned an even deeper shade of purple. “Do not misconstrue my intentions, mortal. My motivations are deeper than you can comprehend. There are factors at play that you do not understand.”

“Oh, I understand, all right,” she said. “Tell me: Have you ever heard of a temple knight named Akrisae Kollyum?”

Saradomin seemed to mull over this. “Yes, I’ve heard him mentioned around here, once or twice. He’s a priest, I believe.”

“Do you know where he is?”

He rolled his eyes. “Do you expect me to keep a running tab on the location of every White Knight in this castle?”

“He’s not in this castle,” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “He’s under a mound of dirt in Morytania, courtesy of the mahjarrat who did you the favour of clearing out the one obstacle keeping you from crashing back into this plane of existence. Akrisae is one of the most fool-hardy, annoying people I’ve ever known. And one of the most noble.”

Even thinking about it brought back the creeping sense of horror. She’d visited him — or at least tried to — in that dreadful span after the ritual, digging down into the Barrows crypts and fending off blows from the other wights. She’d found him in Verac’s tomb, still dressed in the same garb as he had on the frozen plateau. 

She had called him by name, as he rose from the sarcophagus, a vile puppet pulled by unseen strings. His face had been dark and hidden under his hood, and only his eyes illuminated it; sickly, green. She’d apologized to him, again and again, even as he swung at her, again and again, unmoved by her pleas for forgiveness as a corpse could be. 

She didn’t have the heart to fight him. Instead, she teleported out, smashing a clay tablet back to Ardougne in between the swings of his mace. And as she disappeared, she couldn’t help but see his head lower — and couldn’t help but wonder if it was in defeat, or sorrow, or rage. 

“I don’t suppose it would be enough to revive him,” she spat. “But, of course, what you’re doing is  _ noble.  _ Bring back a race that’s been dead for years. Wrench them from an afterlife that I’d hope is better than whatever hell you put them through in the God Wars. Ignore someone who actually cared about Gielinor — enough to swallow his pride and put aside his beliefs, strong and stupid as they were. Though I suppose that last part would be a detractor for you.”

Saradomin’s scowl softened. “I was not aware of his sacrifice,” he said. “If I had been, then I would have, perhaps, changed my course of action with the wand.”

“Too late for that,” she said bitterly. “But I’m sure the centaurs are real appreciative of your intentions. A for effort.”

_ And you wouldn’t have, _ she thought.  _ You never cared about Gielinor, did you? Or its people. It was all about power.  _

“Are we finished here?” Saradomin asked. “Or will you continue to insult me?"

“A yes to both,” she said. “I’ll leave your plotting, and being a cerulean booby who can’t pull his head out of his arse. I have better things to do than talk to you.”

“I wonder,” Saradomin said, as she went to leave. “Would you be so bold to insult me, were you not assured of my inability to turn you into a pile of soot on the floor with a snap of my fingers?”

She didn’t even stop to answer. 

“Absolutely.”

* * *

Teiran stormed out of the White Knight’s castle, muttering to herself angrily.  _ Stupid blue-faced sanctimous prat… if I ever find out how to use these damn Guardian powers, I’m turning him into a trout and releasing him by the Gunnarsgrun fishing spot… _

She stuck out her tongue at Padomenes, a juvenile act that did little to alleviate her frustration, even as the icyene gave her a dirty look while she crossed the courtyard. 

She recalled, when she was young, that when her family put up the Wintumber tree, they had an angel at the top. She used to look up at it with awe and wonder, and asked why they used it instead of the traditional star. Her mother had told her that they inspired hope, like the Saradominist troops of old. 

Later on, after Teiran encountered Commander Zilyana in the God Wars dungeon and got her arse handed to her on a platter, she concluded that winged beings inspired not so much hope as they did raw, combat-induced terror.

“Excuse me,” a polite voice said next to her. 

Teiran turned. A woman, her hair grey with age, was looking at her hopefully. She wore the vestments of a priest and a determined expression.

“Has the wisdom of Saradomin illuminated your day?” She asked. 

“Not really,” Teiran replied. “If anything, it’s made it a little darker.”

A strange look crossed the woman’s face. “I don’t know what you mean. In any case, I am Julianne, emissary of the lord of order. Would you join our crusade against the armies of darkness by allying yourself to our faction?”

Teiran blinked. “The chances of that are about the same as a bottle of rum surviving in Tzhaar City.”

She turned to go, but the woman followed her. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go and aid Zamorak!”

“I’ve no intention,” Teiran said, walking faster. “I’m not joining any faction, or clan, or club, or army.” The old woman was surprisingly spry, and kept up with her. 

“‘Impassivity is an evil unto itself,’ the woman quoted. “Domus 5:11, Book of Forbearance. If you do not join a faction, you are allowing cruelty and chaos to grow unopposed.”

Teiran stopped and turned, looking at the woman with fire in her eyes. 

“I’ve opposed cruelty plenty,” she said, “without some pompous god with a lack of oxygen to his face telling me how to do it. Ask me again, and I’ll show you what chaos really means.”

She turned back to the gates and walked away, not even waiting for a reply. 

“You cannot ignore the coming battles, adventurer!” Julienne called after her. “Conflict shall arrive, and soon!”

_ Oh, I know it, _ she thought, as she left the city.  _ Because the conflict usually finds me. _

* * *

Kardia the witch wasn’t expecting visitors that day — or any day, really. The Underground Pass wasn’t really the environment for friendly neighborhood activities. A cultist, at one point, had suggested a potluck, to which Lord Iban had responded by making him run a timed lap around the upper floor in full bronze armour. 

Reflectively, it had resulted in a potluck — for the soulless, at least, when an unexpected feast had fallen from the sky and landed in the caverns with metallic cacophony. 

Occasional social gaffes like these were really only an entertaining metaphorical cherry on top of Kardia’s demonic chocolate Saturday. True, nipping down to the shops for the occasional eye of newt was a bit of a hassle, and the screams of the maddened slaves slowly being consumed by the Voice of Iban’s constant thrall tended to give her a migraine now and again, but the climate was pleasant, the view was nice, and you never got any door-to-door salespeople.

Therefore, the knock on the door was surprising, and she wondered if it was one of the Ardougne riffraff trying to go on another Saradominist crusade. She picked up a fireplace poker. Dinner was already in the cauldron, but a little variety never hurt anyone.

She opened the door. There was a woman behind it.

She had a nice hat. And a cat, kicking wildly as it dangled from the scruff of its neck. 

“I found him,” Teiran said, shoving the feline into the witch’s arms. The World Guardian thing had, blessedly, removed godly influences from her — and that included Amsacut’s curse. It hadn’t, however, made her immune to getting hair all over her Torva set.  _ Sorry, Marianne. _

The witch narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think he was very lost. He was at the bowl this morning.”

“Well, he’s found again,” she said, shoving her way into the ramshackle hut. The cat in Kardia’s arms hissed and leapt free, running back through the door.*

“You owe me a favour now, right?”

The witch rolled her eyes. “I’m not enchantin’ yer damn broomstick.” She peered even closer at the adventurer. “Say, aren’t you that whore that gone and done Iban in, all them years ago?”

Teiran shook her head. “It’s the hat. I, er, killed her. For the hat. So she’s not going to be a problem any more.”

The witch stared at her for a minute longer. “Fair enough,” she said, finally. “Whatcha want?”

“What can you tell me about…” Teiran paused. “Bringing back the dead?”

The witch grinned, revealing a set of mossy teeth. “Ah. Ya wish to partake in the dark art of resurrectin’ the lost? Tis a noble endeavor. And difficult.”

She began poking around the hut, shuffling about and banging open various cupboards. “Where did I put that damn book? I swear, it’s gone and wandered off all on its own…”

_ Judging by my habits, probably in Melzar’s Maze, _ Teiran thought. “Er, I don’t need specifics. Is it possible?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” the witch said, still searching. “In a ritual commanded by unspeakable wickedness and darkness, requiring the most foul of magicks —”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Question: Is it possible to do on a person who wasn’t totally evil?”

“Certainly. It’s rather hard to get someone who’s completely evil. With apologies to my dark lord, Iban himself had a soft spot for spiders.”

“How… sweet,” Teiran said dryly. “And the process — it leaves someone unchanged? Like, they’re not a zombie or whatever?”

“Oh, no. The ritual bypasses it. By imbuing an act of evil onto an innocent creature, Iban’s consciousness —”

“Wait,” Teiran said, slowly. “Another question: This ritual. Thingie. In the act of resurrection, does the person become completely overtaken by darkness and vileness and such?”

“Indeed!” The witch beamed. “I’m rather proud of it!”

“And this darkness, etc. can’t be overcome with, say, the power of light, and justice and determination and whatever?”

“Nope! Total corruption, beyond all mortal reckoning!” Kardia’s eyes gleamed. “And immortality to boot! Of course, there’s the whole pesky ‘lifeforce being tied to the effigy imbued with yer essence’ bit, and the fact that your soul is forever denied an afterlife due to the wasting corruption inflicted upon it. But other than that I’d say it’s all dead roses!”

Teiran took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Godsdamn it.”

* * *

Teiran made her way home with the setting sun at her back, as it dipped under the Galarpos mountains and sent a long shadow over Ardougne. She stopped by the zoo to update Larry on the penguin movements, which she’d been neglecting to watch in the mad bustle of the past two weeks, and checked in on the parrots, who squawked an excited greeting to her in the pitch of C Minor Injuries. 

The routine, when she got back to the house, was always the same; she’d change out of her armour and neaten up. Marianne would serve her dinner. Afterwards, she’d go to the courtyard, set up a wooden training dummy, and tried to pretend that it wasn’t a couple of planks and, instead, a giant monster trying to devour the universe.

“Ok,” she said, getting into a combat-ready stance. “World Guardian powers — Activate!”

She jerked her hands. Phenomenal cosmic power failed to blow the dummy into tiny bits.

She took a deep breath.  _ Ok. Big battle, going on in space or whatever. This... whatever-it-might-be is about to turn Gielinor into a huge wasteland of ash. The other guardians have failed. The gods have all been… vaporized or something. It’s down to you. _

She ran towards the dummy and punched it. “Now!”

Her fist struck the mannequin, sending it crashing backwards with the sound of splintering wood.

She peered down at it. Her punch had merely cracked it in two. 

“Bugger. Same as the last ones.”

She threw the broken wood to the side and set up another one, which, five minutes later, met a similar fate, as did a third. And a fourth. And a fifth. 

Two dozen dummies later, she gave up. Regular melee damage was fine and good, but she doubted that would do much good against a world-ending threat. Or a god. 

Marianne came out as Teiran was gathering up the broken bits of dummy, grumbling to herself.

“Still no luck, miss?” she said. “Shall I fetch the ice gloves for your knuckles?”

“No, it’s fine,” Teiran replied, stacking the smashed planks together as tidily as she could. “I’m just having an off-day is all.”

“It’s been a week, miss. Isn’t there some sort of tutor to help you with this?”

“Not one that doesn’t speak in cryptics. Or that hasn’t been doing it for thousands of years. Or is human.” She sighed. “So I’m more or less on my own.”

She brought the wood inside and deposited it in on the log pile. Marianne disappeared, returning a moment later with a cup of tea. 

“Thanks.” She must have seen Teiran was stressed — it was certainly more syrupy than usual. 

She sank onto the couch with the tea, sipping it slowly. “I’ll figure it out. Probably. Eventually.”

Marianne sat beside her. “I hope so. I’m getting frustrated just watching you. I can’t imagine how you feel.”

Teiran gave her a wan smile. “The entirety of today’s been an exercise in frustration. I should have figured it would have ended this way.” She turned to the maid. “How was your day?”

Marianne shrugged. “Same as usual. Dusted the armoire. Helped Asmodeus polish the silver. Restocked the larder. That one fellow in the Ardougne market tried flirting with me. Again.”

“What, that bloke in Bandos armour keeps going on about all his achievements? Gunderson, or whatever?”

“Gonthorian,” Marianne corrected her. “Yes. He offered me some goldfish crackers and asked if I was free later tonight.”

“What did you do?”

“Told him I wasn’t, and when his back was turned, looked through his pockets,” Marianne said prudently. “There wasn’t anything good in there, of course. Just a bronze dagger and some loose change. I suppose it’s the principle of the matter that counts.”

“I’m glad you’re staying in practice.”

“It’s always a handy thing to know, I reckon,” she said, getting up. “Will you be needing me?”

“No, you can go. I should be getting to bed.”

Teiran had managed to keep her room tidier nowadays. The desk was still a clutter of books and runes and papers, but she kept the floor clear. She told herself that this was because of efficiency; in reality, she knew it was out of a muted respect. While it was home, it still didn’t feel like her house. She wasn’t sure if it ever would. 

She touched the dragon helm on the nightstand and she got into bed. She didn’t carry it with her wherever she went anymore, if only for the sake of inventory space. She did, however, keep it polished, shining it until the red metal gleamed.

As she lay in the dark, she wondered if she should tell herself that tomorrow would be better. She wondered whether, if she did, it would be lying, or merely delusional. 

_ Whatever, _ she thought, sleepily.  _ I can deal with it. _

As she drifted off to sleep, she tried not to think about hourglasses.


	40. Faces Obscura

_They were kissing. She couldn’t remember if it was on top of the Wizard’s Tower, or by the Duel Arena, or on Dragontooth Island. It didn’t matter. The only thing in the universe that did matter was him, and his smell, and the warmth and sensation of him pressed against her. His fingers twined through her hair, while his other hand gripped her waist. Her arms were circled around his neck, tracing the muscles on his back._

_She felt his breathing. She felt his heartbeat. He felt alive, and so did she._

_They broke too soon. It was always too soon, even when they needed to come up for air. Nevertheless he was smiling. Green eyes met brown; the latter had a glint, unmistakable and loving._

_She wanted it to last forever. But it couldn’t._

_Something that had been tugging at the back of her mind made its presence known with a persistent mental yank. She felt the smile fade from her lips._

_“This isn’t real,” she whispered. Saying it felt like a betrayal. “This… I’m remembering this. It’s a dream. You’re a dream. You’re dead.”_

_His eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “What are you talking about? This is real. We’re here, right now.”_

_She shook her head. “No. it can’t be real.”_

It’s too good to be real, _she thought._

_“Well,” he said, diplomatically. “If it isn’t real, we can make it last.” He pulled her closer. She however, pushed him away, an action that took every ounce of her will._

_“I need to tell you something,” she said, desperately. “I can’t be with you.”_

_“But you’re with me now,” he protested. “There’s nothing stopping us. I don’t think there’s anything in the world that could stop you.”_

_“You don’t understand,” she said, panic creeping into her voice. “Where you are… I can’t go. Now, I can’t die. I’m not sure if I ever can.”_

_Was it just her, or was everything growing colder? Was it the sun sinking, or was it becoming darker?_

_“Teiran,” he said. Hearing his voice say her name was painful, to the point where she winced. “You’re not making any sense.”_

_The feeling of him was fading, and the world around them was becoming swallowed by blackness, suffocating, muffling._

_“Listen!” she shouted, her voice growing fainter by the moment. “I can’t go to you! Stop waiting!”_

_She couldn’t see; the only thing she felt was cold. Something crunched under her feet, hissing like sand in an hourglass._

_“Cyrisus!” she shouted. “Cyrisus!”_

_There was no reply._

* * *

Teiran woke up drenched in sweat, gasping for air as she disentangled herself from her duvet. The room was quiet, illuminated by moonlight that sliced through a gap in the curtains. 

She took a deep breath, and unconsciously reached for the ring around her neck. It was still there, resting on top of her chest, which was hammering like a drum. 

She wiped the sweat from her eyes. It had been a while since she’d had a nightmare like that. She’d dreamed about Cyrisus constantly, sure, though in the past few months it had been reduced to passing glances — a glimpse, or a familiar face in a crowd that disappeared a mere moment later.

Other instances had been… closer, to put it politely. She wasn’t sure if she welcomed that or not. She accepted his presence in her dreams, in whatever capacity, as unavoidable. The first few times she was shaken. Now, it was as regular as the sun rising. 

This time, though… 

She shook her head. It was the caffeine that she’d had so late at night, for sure. Maybe some dark echo of whatever remained of Iban down in the Underground Pass. Or the leftovers of a massive urge to punch a certain cerulean god…

She was listless. Restless. Urgency sang in her veins, but she lacked the direction to expend it. Saradomin had been worse than useless. The Zamorakian approach was a similar dead end. As much as she tried to push off her dream as unpleasant indigestion, she couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was a horrifying reality. 

In any case, she was awake. With a defeated grunt she climbed out of bed and headed for the window, hoping to at least get a sense of the time.

She wrenched the curtain open. The full moon peered down at her, a surveilling eye to all below it. Stars surrounded it in a chaotic spread, glittering and scattered like wildflowers in a meadow. 

As she gazed at the cosmic display, blinking in the harsh moonlight, she got an idea.

* * *

Fairy Nuff flew through the woods of Zanaris, her wings a frantic blur as she dodged trees and zygomites. The human was lying on a cot when she arrived, her eyes half-shut, muttering incoherently.

Nuff buzzed over the adventurer, shaking her head. “Where did you find her?”

“Bub said she was on the Cosmic Plane,” Fairy Fixit said, hovering nearby. “Said she was lying like this in a patch of star flowers with about six empty vials around her.”

“Dear, oh dear,” Nuff muttered, as she considered something. 

“I need a favour,” Nuff said. “Fly down to the rings and fetch me…” she whispered something to the builder, whose face twisted in confusion.

“That? Oh, but you know the teleportation matrix makes the bottle smash!” Fixit protested. 

“Oh, you’re clever. You’ll figure it out,” Nuff said. “Hurry off, then!” 

Fixit departed, muttering about transformative-stable glass compounds. Nuff lifted the woman’s hand and checked for a pulse.

It was there. Faint. And unbelievably rapid — like that of a mouse’s. 

She put down the hand. “It’s a wonder how you’re still alive,” she muttered, shaking her head again. She fetched another pillow and propped up the human’s head; upon further consideration, she also went and fetched a bucket.

Five minutes passed. Another fairy arrived with a vial, sloshing full of green liquid. 

“Here you are, doc,” he said, handing over the potion. “Are ya sure that a Guthix Rest is gonna do the trick?”

“A Guthix Rest? No, not at all,” Nuff said, taking the vial. “Ah, there you are, Fixit.”

The builder fluttered into the room, hefting a bottle nearly as large as herself. “You’re lucky they’ve got stabler stuff over on Braindeath Island,” she said, passing it to the doctor. “The ones over in Karamja shatter like no tomorrow.”

Nuff uncorked the potion, and then the bottle. The smell of weapons cleaner filled the clearing.

“A Guthix Rest,” she said, tipping some of the eye-watering liquid into the vial, “will do no good for this ailment. What we need is what I call a Guthix Wake-Up Call.”

She gave the vial a shake, causing the contents within to violently fizz, and pressed it to the adventurer’s lips. 

Half a minute later, and the prone figure bolted upright, coughing violently. It leaned over the side of the cot, grabbing the bucket and vomiting bright orange, which turned to floating soap bubbles that spilled over the container’s side.

Teiran wiped her mouth, still retching. “Couldn’t you have added some banana?” she croaked. 

Fairy Nuff hovered in front of her blanched face. “Stupid girl!” she shouted, with surprising volume for someone so small. “Six magic essences? While camping out on the cosmic plane? What were you thinking? You could have died! A human’s not meant to take that much raw power!”

Teiran looked to the side and muttered something Nuff couldn’t hear. 

“What did you just say?” the fairy snapped. 

“It’s not like it matters if I die, anyways!” Terian snapped. “Trust me. I’ve tried it. A whole lot of times before this, actually, to be sure.”

Fairy Nuff gave her a hard look. “Immunity from death or no, what you did was foolish. What were you trying to achieve, anyways?”

She looked away again. “I was trying to cast Contact.”

“With six magic essences? Who in Gielinor were you trying to reach?’

“Someone rather unreachable,” she sighed. “The best I managed was Postie Pete, and even then, the reception was rather spotty.”

Fairy Nuff shook her head. “If you’re trying to experiment with dimensional magic, then drinking magic potions isn’t the way to do it. All you’re going to do is turn into something sticky.”

Teiran sighed, and put the bucket down. “I won’t do it again, ok? And I should probably go and apologize to Bubrezankaldargarez'jk…”

Drinking all those magic essences had been… regrettable. The first one had merely boosted her magic level. The second one had made her vision blur. By the third one her hands were shaking; after the fourth, she was coughing up what disturbingly looked like rose petals. 

Nevertheless, she persisted. She cast Contact over and over again, hoping that something, somehow, would break through, between the crackle of the spell and the silence on the other end, trying her best to ignore the star flowers blooming around her. 

Maybe… she could try it one more time? Yeah. Maybe she needed a seventh one… she was going back to the Cosmic plane anyways…

At that moment, Chaeldar flew in. “Teiran?” She said. “Are you good to get up? You’re wanted.”

Teiran swung her legs over the cot, her head still throbbing with a magic essence hangover. “Who is it?”

“I’ll take you to him.” The slayer master waved her hand, and Zanaris disappeared around her, replaced by the drab interior of Death’s Office.

The reaper himself was sitting behind his desk, looking as peeved as a skull with glowing blue lights for eyes possibly could. 

“Just what,” he said, “do you think you’re doing?”

She raised an eyebrow. “For all you know, drinking a ridiculous amount of magic essences is what I do to amuse myself in my leisure hours.”

Death didn’t reply, and instead unfurled a scroll, long enough to spill over the top of his desk and continue onto the floor. 

“79 times,” he said. “That you’ve died in the last six hours. That is, by my mathematics, approximately 12 deaths per hour, or one death every five minutes.”

He jabbed his finger at the scroll. “Instance number 14 was when you approached the Corporeal Beast wearing nothing but an iron helm, shouting, “Come at me, bro!’” The skeletal digit traveled further down. “Instance number 48 was when you repeatedly ran into a stick trap at Tirannwn! And instance number 73 was when you stood on the candles in the Draynor Manor basement!” He peered down at the parchment. “Can you even _do_ that anymore?”

Teiran waved it away. “So what if I take a few risks? I can’t die, as you oh-so-kindly established to me yesterday. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re doing it on purpose,” Death said. 

“So what if I am?”

“You cannot treat your powers like some sort of toy!" Death snapped. "I understand if you perish, now and again, because of a battle or an unexpected difficulty. But throwing yourself in harm’s way for the sole purpose of repeatedly enjoying the scenery of Lumbridge or otherwise experimenting with the process of resurrection is… is... _ludicrous_. You must control yourself.”

“What’s going to happen if I don’t?” she asked. “Will my soul become too spread out or something? Do I have a limited number of Get Out of Death Free cards before I kick it permanently?”

“No,” Death said severely. “And I would encourage you to disinherit that line of thinking.”

Something chimed in his robe. Death pulled out three hourglasses and sighed. 

“Duty calls. I am wanted in Silverea,” he said, rising from his seat. “Do not take death so callously. You may grow used to it. But such things have consequences, even if they do not reach you directly.”

With a click of his fingers he vanished, and a second later, Teiran found herself teleported north of Draynor. 

She kicked a rock and released a huff of breath, walking in no particular direction while she fumed. The magic essence headache still clamped down on her temples, and the taste of bitter Guthix Rest/rum mix still lingered in her mouth. 

Dying seventy-nine times in the last six hours was surprisingly easy, once she’d gotten over the initial revulsion. They’d all blurred together, between being stomped, stabbed, poked, poisoned, and burned to death, and after a while it had even become boring. It was those moments between the world going black and her waking up in Lumbridge that she felt her anticipation rise, as she searched for something — anything — that glimmered in the void. 

Instead, what she’d got was Hans giving her a funny look each time she’d reappeared, and the lingering feeling that she was somehow doing something wrong.

Something swatted at her from the side. She casually hit it with her whip, hearing it smack wood as it struck. 

She turned, and realized that she was surrounded by dead trees — and one undead one, which was twisting its branches in anger.

She sighed. Evidently her wandering had taken her to Draynor Manor, a place she had no interest in visiting at the moment. 

“The last thing I need,” she muttered, as she pulled her whip free from the sapient plant, “are haunted chairs sneaking up on me in the dark.”

“Tacky things, those chairs,” a voice next to her said. “What’s even the point? To spook Level 6 players fresh out of Lumbridge? How adorably Fifth Age. The only way they could be scarier is if they had those paper Halloween masks.”

Teiran’s punch didn’t truly hit the grinning, mask-like face to her right; instead, her fist cut through like it was made of smoke, and it drifted away, rematerializing to her left.

“How rude,” Sliske said, brushing off his robe. “Is this how you normally greet your friends?”

Teiran whipped around. “Friends?” she said. “What in green Gielinor gives you the impression that we’re friends? You turned one of my allies into a wight. You _killed Guthix._ The only way I ever want to see you is dead, preferably by impalement on something big and spiky.”

She hefted a kick at the mahjarrat, who sidestepped it with a casual grace. 

“Now, now,” he said. “The past is in the past. The now, however, is here. And I have a proposition for you. I —”

“The answer is no,” she said. 

“I haven’t even told you what it is.”

“The answer is still no.” She turned back toward Draynor. “I don’t care if you’re offering me universal power or 5k and an iron set. I’m not interested.”

“Are you sure?” he called after her. “I may have something you want. _Per se_ , certain avenues into the afterlife that may or may not be contingent to your concerns!”

She stopped. “What are you talking about?”

“You want a peek into the ever-after, don’t you?” Sliske said. “Which, by normal conventions, is _monstrously_ difficult to achieve. Buuuuuuuut I may be able to pull a few strings, here and there. It would be a five minute connection, at most. But it would be something.”

She forced herself not to turn around, instead gripping the handle of her whip tighter. “What’s the catch?” she said. “Why are you interested in helping me?”

“No catch!” Sliske said. “I know you’re in a bit of a, aha, pickle, as the kids call it these days. Immortality does have its downsides, mmm? But I would rather you stop dying all over the place. It’s rather interfering with my necromancy magic, amusing as it is to see you walk into Lumbridge Caves with nothing but a candle.”

She took a deep breath. “Still no.”

“Fine then! Fine,” Sliske said, reasonably enough. “I just figured I’d ask.” He paused.

“Are you doing alright?” he asked. “You know, I think you’ve rather lost your edge. If I were Lucien, you wouldn’t have even let me monologue. You would have just gone on and tried to tear me to pieces. What happened to all that rage? Or have you been spending the last few chapters wallowing in angst? Such a shame. Such a waste.”

 _That_ made Teiran turn around, fire sparking in her eyes. “If you don’t get out of my sight within the next six seconds, I’ll show you rage,” she growled. “And just how far I can scatter bits of mahjarrat of the kingdom of Misthalin with a hand-held catapult.”

Sliske laughed. “There we go! Back to the threats. You need to work on that last one, but it’s a start. But, ah, I should be going. Lots to do. Lots to see. I need to tell Guthan to fetch some popcorn for the upcoming battle. The cliffs of Al Kharid will be _such_ a good viewing spot.”

He waved. “Ta ta for now, World Guardian. If you change your mind, you know where I live!” 

Before she could ask what he meant about an upcoming battle, Sliske vanished, leaving behind a laugh that lingered and rang through the dead forest.


	41. Battlefield

Teiran mulled over Sliske’s words in the following days. She didn’t trust him, of course. She was surprised that she didn’t actually end up tearing him to pieces when he’d appeared in Draynor Manor, though she chalked that up to the magic hangover and being exhausted from dying over six-dozen times. 

Even so…

Five minutes. And no catch, he had said. 

No. There was always a catch. He’d probably try and use the opportunity to control her mind or something. Or he’d drop in a few months afterwards and cash in on the ‘good turn’ he’d done for her, and the next thing she knew, she’d be blackmailed into assassinating the king of Misthalin…

Then again, it was just five minutes. And she could always say no, later on…

Five minutes wasn’t that long. It wouldn’t be long enough at all. Then again, no time would be long enough. But it might be enough to, at least, say goodbye, to apologize, and explain what had happened…

Death had said it was impossible. But what did he know? Even he said that he didn’t know much about the afterlife…

She shook her head, trying to dislodge this speculation from her thoughts.  _ This is Sliske we’re talking about,  _ she thought.  _ The only thing you can trust him to do is to be untrustworthy. Your first priority with him is to wipe him off the map before he can wreak any more havoc.  _

She turned her attention back to more pressing matter; namely, the glowing portal hovering behind Lumbridge castle. 

It had opened a week ago, apparently, first as a blip that flickered in the grass. It had grown since then; now it was the size of dining-table, and it was scorching the ground around it. 

It glowed with malevolence. Teiran could feel it in the way her skin prickled. It stuck out like an ugly scab against the green landscape, sucking at the eyeballs with its emptiness. 

“Do you have any idea what it might be?” she asked, trying her best to scrutinize it while not looking at it directly.

The portal expert flipped through her notes. “Type A,” she said. “A true classic. Used for divine interdimensional palmigrade perambulation through non-Euclidian byways.”

“Erm…” Teiran attempted to untangle the vocabulary knot. “So it’s god-related?”

“I suspect as such,” the expert said. “It could be pushback from Guthix’s death. Or it could be another god trying to make its way into this world.”

_ Shit. _

“Say it’s the latter,” Teiran said. “Can you figure which god it might be?”

The expert shrugged. “I’m a specialist in portals. Not what goes through them. For all I know, it could be an army of mantis-men.”

Teiran stepped closer to the rift, even as it made her eyes water. It was too big to be a minor god, for sure. Bandos, perhaps? But the energy from it was too... sinister. The god of orks, goblins and trolls might relish in bloodshed and destruction, but not in subtlety. Armadyl… he’d want to manifest somewhere high-up.

Zaros was a likely candidate. But even then, then energy emanating from this was unfamiliar. It lacked the air of oldness that she remembered from the temple under the digsite. And Azzanadra wasn’t around, hearkening the return of the empty lord…

Instead, other onlookers had gathered. Villagers gawked at the poral, shielding their eyes from its malevolent glow. A goblin stared at it with slackjawed awe, staying a weary distance from a couple of H.A.M. cultists who had bothered to crawl up from the underground to watch the show. 

Duke Horatio was also regarding it, with a pair of Lumbridge soldiers hovering near him as he watched from the Lumbridge Castle walls. Teiran walked over to him. 

“What do you make of this?” he said, in lieu of a greeting. 

Teiran shrugged. “God nonsense. I don’t like the look of it. Or the feel of it.”

The Duke’s forehead creases increased by tenfold. “What does this mean for us?”

She sighed. “Be on guard. It might be nothing. But if it’s not, then it’ll be big. I’ll stay around here for the next couple of weeks.”

“Shall I set up a spare bed in the castle?”

“Yeah, that’ll be fine,” she said, distractedly. She was eyeing the portal again. It was flickering; occasionally sprouting scarlet flames around the edges, unlike any that she’d seen in any fireplace. 

They were, however, suspiciously similar to the kind that had wreathed her when, naively, she’d tried to steal some wine from a certain temple by Edgeville…

“You might want to stock up on holy symbols,” she said, absentmindedly.

“What?!” 

Teiran shook her head. “No. Sorry. Just thinking aloud.” She turned back to the Duke, whose face had paled. “It’s probably nothing. Honestly.”

“Are you sure?” Horatio’s voice was heavy with apprehension; it would be, after all, when all of Lumbridge rested on it. 

Teiran decided to answer honestly.

“No.”

* * *

The explosion that set off behind her nearly knocked her off her feet; it was only her forward momentum that kept her upright, and even then, she felt the heat on her back and small bits of debris bounce off her armour. 

The child in her arms screamed, and buried his face in her shoulder against the blinding

light; she held onto him a little tighter, running as fast as she could without dropping him. 

Around her, the battle raged. Warlocks and sages fired spells with reckless abandon, the wayward ones striking the ground or sailing into the sky. White and black knights clashed, the soot and dirt from the ground and the fires staining their armour a universal shade of smudged grey. Arrows or no distinctive origin flew to and fro, striking indiscriminately as the sharpshooters attempted to make clear of their intended targets through the smoke and chaos. 

Flesh was greeted by metal, and the ground was greeted by blood; all around, the battle hymns of fury and agony mixed and rose into the thick, hot air.

Teiran sensed a fire wave roaring towards her. She raised her obsidian shield, which took the brunt of the impact. 

“Ice burst, damn you!” she yelled, willing the spell to rip from her fingers. 

Nothing happened. 

She cursed, dodging a second spell that blasted towards her way. Casting without a staff was a hard habit to break. She didn’t understand why it had changed all of a sudden — the wizards weren’t able to explain it, either — but it proved to be a major inconvenience. 

Instead, she reached into her bag and lobbed a red chinchompa. It exploded behind her as she ran, and she didn’t bother to watch. 

More arrows whizzed by her as she ran; she wasn’t sure if they were shooting at her, or if she was caught in the crossfire. Even as she mumbled a protection prayer, one managed to strike through a chink in her armour, and she hissed in pain. 

She stumbled past the makeshift wooden wall that marked the area between the battlefield and Lumbridge Castle, now scarred with the marks of firefight. Even then, she didn’t stop or slow until she reached the church. 

Father Aereck was waiting there. He walked hurriedly through the pews, which were filled with panicked Lumbridge residents. She handed the sobbing child to the priest, and, as an afterthought, pulled out the arrow in her shoulder with a pained grunt. 

“That’s the last of them,” she said, grabbing a tuna from her bag and taking a bite. “At least, the last of them from the houses still standing. I’ll look out for others while I’m there.”

“Bless you,” Aereck said. “Please, stay behind. The battle rages worse, and I fear you may be injured further.”

“Injury’s no problem,” she said, finishing off the tuna. “Besides — I have someone I need to go shout at.”

She left the church behind her, weaving through the piles of rubble, squadrons of guards and medics carrying stretchers. She didn’t stop to regard the Lum as she passed it; now devoid of ducks, the river’s surface was now occupied by floating clumps of ash.

Teiran marched back onto the battlefield. Embers rose to the sky, and the smoke closed around her. Even through the smog and the fighters, she could see the glowing green crater in the center, burning with a divine fierceness that bled through the haze. Around it, people kneeled, gathering shards of crystals in their arms while the battle raged around them. 

She made her way south, towards the crude camp and wooden ramparts hastily erected in the muck of the swamps. As she reached the scaffolds, several red and black-clad fighters posted there began to shout, shooting arrows in her direction. She ignored them; instead, she gulped a super defense potion and began to climb. 

Half a dozen archers were waiting for her at the top, crossbows aimed directly at her. 

Teiran sighed. “I’ll give you a chance to get out of my way,” she said. “Which would be polite. And make all of our lives much, much easier.”

Six arrows bounced off of her armour. She rolled her eyes, and unfurled her whip from her belt. “You people can be so difficult. Ah, well. Don’t say I didn’t try.”

She walked towards them. 

A few minutes later, six sharpshooters landed on the marshy loam, groaning as they clutched various body parts.

Teiran carried on, reaching the center mast of the wooden structure. She ascended. 

There was another soldier at the top — a lookout, it seemed, with a telescope in his hand.  When he saw Teiran his face paled; evidently, he had heard the commotion below. 

“I’ll, uh, make this easier for you,” he said. He jumped over the side, landing on the rampart beneath with a wooden crash. 

Teiran peered over the side. The soldier was clambering to his feet unsteadily, but seemed otherwise uninjured. 

“Good boy,” she muttered, and she turned to the figure that loomed overhead. 

Zamorak was fiercely concentrated on the crimson beam emitting from his hands, his many-horned face locked in a determined scowl. His batlike wings were partially unfolded, covering much of his body, which was lit up with a fiery glow from the circle of lava at his feet. Teiran wasn’t sure if that was an effect of him staying in one spot, if he had opened a rift into Gielinor’s crust, or if he merely had it installed. She didn’t care.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. 

“Hey! Arsehole!” 

Zamorak didn’t seem to react, instead continuing to focus on his beam

“Oi! You! Horny bastard!” Teiran yelled. “The one tearing up my godsdamn city! What the hell are you doing in this realm? I don’t recall sending out a dinner invitation, so would you kindly sod off?”

The god turned a single, bloodred eye in her direction. 

“Away with you,” he rumbled, and jerked his head ever so slightly. 

She felt the lighting bolt hit her; the boom thundered in her ears and blinded her, and the heat was almost unbearable. Three hot seconds later, however, she still stood, her armour slightly smoking. 

“Nice try!” she shouted. “Where was I? Oh, yeah. Fuck off!”

Zamorak grunted. “So you’re immune to my power?” he said. “Then you’re the pesky little Guthixian running about and throwing a tantrum over her god’s death, I presume. Away with you. You are interfering with my concentration.”

“I go when you go, you cherry-flavoured toe rag! I’m not about to put up with gods squabbling in Lumbridge’s back garden!”

The god raised an eyebrow. “Does it occur to you that I am only here because the scum Saradomin opposes me?” he said. “He has me at a standstill. If he had not confronted me upon my arrival, then I would have left this location long ago.”

“Suuuuure. And I’m Brassica Prime. But I’m sure that if that darn old Saradomin got out of your hair, you’d just be on your merry way, and not leave the immediate area around here a smoking ruin.”

“Your sarcasm bores me,” Zamorak rumbled. “And do not underestimate the god of cole crops. He holds far greater power than you account for.”

Teiran blinked. “Great. The god of chaos has not only returned, but he’s also bonkers.”

Zamorak did not reply. In frustration, she took out a chinchompa and threw it at him. It missed, landing in the lava pit with a faint, explosive splash. Growling in frustration, she retrieved her Ancient Staff, gripping it with both hands. 

“Smoke blitz!” She shouted, feeling the staff grow hot in her hands. The spell fired, leaving behind an acrid trail in its wake, before puffing away uselessly against one of Zamorak’s wings.

The god chuckled. “You use the magic of my people against me? You wear the armour of a fallen god and dare to defy me? Pathetic.”

With that, he extended a giant hand towards her, touching a clawlike finger to his thumb, and flicked her off the rampart. 

Teiran flew, tumbling in the air and smoke for several hundred meters before colliding into the scaffolding opposite of the field with a splintering smash. 

She groaned, sitting up amongst the broken wood. She flashed a rude hand signal at the scarlet god, barely visible on the opposite side of the battlefield, as two thoroughly bewildered white knights looked on. 

Then she got up, feeling various parts of her body creak. “Stupid, oversized imp,” she muttered. “Ow. That’s definitely going to bruise.”

She looked behind her. Saradomin loomed, a giant version of the god she’d seen in Falador Castle, similarly concentrated on his own azure energy beam blasting from his outstretched palms.

“I don’t suppose I can persuade you to bugger off, either?” she said wearily.

Saradomin didn’t even spare her a glance. “Can you not see that I am concentrating?” he said, his eyes locked on his target. 

“You know, for being mortal enemies, you two are awfully similar. Have you considered couple’s therapy?”

Saradomin snorted, blue steam billowing from a pair of gigantic nostrils. “Joke all you wish, mortal. This is no laughing matter.”

“Are you sure? I think it’s rather funny, you know, your little tiff tearing up half of a pretty peaceful Saradominist village!” she shouted. “Have you considered taking this somewhere else? Like maybe Freneskae? Or the Frozen Waste? Or some bloody little remote island that nobody cares about?”

“I do not take this battle lightly, mortal,” Saradomin said. “If you wish to see it end sooner, or to rid Gielinor of another god, then aid me, so I can eliminate Zamorak and his dark followers once and for all.”

She glared at him. “And have you take his place as resident tyrant? I don’t think so.”

“Then begone. This is no place for indecisive moderates,” Saradomin spat. “Pick a side, World Guardian. Lest the sides do this picking for you.”

She scowled at him, and considered throwing another chinchompa before deciding that it wouldn’t be worth the waste of ammo. She climbed down the ladder and made her way back to Lumbridge Castle, dodging spells and arrows and wayward swings of weapons. 

Duke Horatio barely nodded his head to greet her when she entered the dining hall, now converted into a makeshift war room. Papers covered nearly every wall and surface, and various couriers filtered through the door, adding and taking from the piles of parchment in a complicated flurry. 

“Any news?” he asked. Dark half-circles loomed under his eyes.

“We’ve got the last of evacuees to safety,” she said. “And neither god will budge, of course. I’m not sure if I can force them. If I had the Staff of Armadyl, or a couple of armies, two-dozen catapults and a lot of coal-tar, then maybe I could make a dent. But even then, it would probably just make things even messier.”

A distant explosion went off, shaking the little room and sending a couple of scrolls rolling off the table. The Duke pinched the bridge of his nose with a tired sigh. 

“I’ve sent to Falador for aid,” he said. “Varrock, too. I do not know how long this will last.”

“I don’t, either,” she said. “It’ll either end when they get bored, or when one destroys the other.”

“What can we do, then?” 

“I’m not sure.” She glanced out the open door. A couple of medics rushed by, carrying someone in a stretcher, half-covered by a sheet that had once been white. “Wait it out. Hunker down. That’s all I can say.”

The Duke nodded. “Very well.”

Somehow, hearing that was worse than the argument that she expected. 

She left Horatio to his paperwork and made her way to the top of the castle, floating embers following her ascent as they drifted upward. The air here was a little clearer, even as she caught whiffs of smoke from the battlefield. Smog covered a good part of it, but she could still make out the two figures, the red and blue beams of light they emitted, and the green haze of the rift they fought over.

She sat on one of the crenellations, letting her body rest, even if it was for a short moment. 

Teiran remembered when she first came to the castle rooftop; it was the second thing she ever did when she first came to Lumbridge, right after killing a rat in the courtyard with her new bronze dagger. She’d rushed up the stairs, giddy with the prospect of a whole new world to explore, not stopping until she reached the roof. From there, she’d taken in her first proper sight of the mainland, gawking at the Wizard’s Tower, surveying the outlining farms, and wondering how she would traverse the cliffside that surrounded Al Kharid.

If she closed her eyes, she could still see the old farmhouse where the H.A.M. cultists hid and the patch where she’d grown her first-ever oak, all those years ago. 

She sighed, not willing to open them again; not willing to see the destruction that replaced the peaceful landscape of her mind’s eye. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a crunching noise next to her. 

She opened her eyes. Sliske was sitting in a lawn chair, eating popcorn and taking in the scene of battle like a tourist on a gnomecopter tour. 

“You!” she yelled, jumping out of her seat. 

“Me!” Sliske said, wearing an expression of mock surprise. “Why, I didn’t know it was me sitting here, all along! Thank you for oh-so-kindly clarifying.”

She took out her whip. “Didn’t I tell you that the next time I saw you, it would be in very tiny pieces?”

“Now, now. No need for violence. There’s quite enough of that to go around.” He gestured towards the battlefield. “I’m just enjoying the show! Isn’t it such good fun to watch the gods try to obliterate each other? I haven’t been this entertained since the PvP riots.”

He stood up. “I really must get going, though. Lots of things to attend to!”

“Oh no, you’re not!” Teiran shouted. She slashed her whip at the mahjarrat.

Upon impact, he disappeared like he had in Draynor Manor, his form dissipating like smoke. 

“So rude,” his disembodied voice chastised. “You know, I’m surprised you haven’t died yet, if you’re going to attack people so impulsively. I even went and bothered to prepare ahead of time! Ah, well, you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Find out what?” Teiran shouted. The voice didn’t reply.

“Prick,” she muttered under her breath. 

She looked back over the battlefield, the fervour of which had not died down, even as dusk had begun to descend. She sighed. 

It was going to be a long night. 


	42. Undying

The next several weeks were a haze of blood and smoke and rushing. More people and creatures had joined the battle, which raged on day and night. Even in the dark, the camp’s fires and the sickly glow of the rift in the middle lit up the surrounding area like a dying sun, the light oozing through curtains and cracks in boarded-up windows of the buildings that still stood. 

Teiran didn’t go home for weeks. She helped, where she could. She teleported to Varrock and Falador so often that she wondered if she would split into different dimensions. She showed the Lumbridge guard how to fight enemies fiercer than the goblins they were used to, until Horatio could get a proper training camp going. 

She hauled things. Food. Lumber. Carts. 

Bodies. Far, far too many bodies. The lighter they were, the worse it was. 

She didn’t so much get sleep as steal it, in the odd moments when she gave out to exhaustion. She would often wake up in odd places, hunched over a table of papers or curled up in a pile of sacks in the castle kitchens. 

People tried to give her things. Loaves of bread, shoved in her arms. Meagre handfuls of coins. Family heirlooms. Unspoken words of gratitude, granted even when she could see they had nothing left but their pride.

She turned them down, every time, mumbling something about not taking charity.

There were quiet moments — or, moments as quiet as they could be, between the sniffles and weeping, and the moans of pain that echoed throughout the Lumbridge church. She was bandaging a woman’s leg — the gash in which had been the least severe injury she’d seen all day — when she felt the little tug on her arm. 

The girl, no older than ten or so, looked at her with a mixture of awe and fear. Teiran wasn’t sure why, considering that she was currently covered in soot and hadn’t showered in days. 

“Yer the World Guardian, right?” the girl said, looking her up and down. “You’ve gotta be, ‘cos my dad said so. And ‘e said you went out into battle n’ took out fifty warlocks in one go, n’ you threw a bomb at Zamorak n’ called him a bad word mummy said I’m not allowed to repeat!”

Teiran managed a small smile. “Something like that, I suppose. It wasn’t fifty.”

The child grinned. “Whatcha doin’ here, then? Shouldn’t you be goin’ out there, smiting people and stuff?”

Teiran clasped the bandage shut, checking that it wasn’t too tight. She looked at the row of cots that followed, each with their own occupant. A young man in blue and gold robes and a Saradominist symbol around his neck was helping tend to some of them — meanwhile, Father Aereck was hunched over a pew, half-asleep.

She sighed. “I think I’m needed here more.”

* * *

She wasn’t there when Saradomin finished off Zamorak. She was in Varrock at the time, arguing with King Roald about shipping in more supplies. Even so, she heard the blast through the castle’s walls, and she immediately teleported over to see the damage. 

When she arrived, Saradomin was warping away. Zamorak had vanished, leaving the soldiers he left behind in disarray. He’s been teleported out, Horatio later said, by his general, just as Saradomin was about to deliver the final blow. 

She’d cursed, then, shaking her fist at the sky and the ruined ground and lamenting that after weeks of destruction, she still had two gods to deal with. 

Even as the armies dissipated (and as she dealt with the reluctant stragglers) she insisted on staying behind. It was only after she fell asleep in the middle of casting Plank Make, resulting in a rectangularly-shaped log landing on Hans’ toe with a sudden thud, that Horatio made her go home. She complied, amazed that she could even teleport to Ardougne, before she shuffled through the house portal and collapsed in the garden.

She woke up a full day later to a scolding from Marianne. After several semi-force fed bowls of stew and a sincere promise to sleep in her own bed that night, she headed back to the town to survey the damage. 

Rebuilding went swiftly. Horatio refused all offers for supplements to his coffers, which Teiran respected. She may, however, have surreptitiously arranged for a few shipments from Miscellania to be waylaid on the way to her bank and end up in the castle courtyard. 

The battlefield remained, as did the crater. It was an ugly scar in the land, puckered like a sore and ringed by a rash of dead, cracked earth. The camps still remained, and were rapidly being dismantled for spare pieces, as was the rest of the debris scattered about. Some of it was more dangerous than others. Half-dead demons left trapped under the rubble she could handle; other findings were far more incendiary.

Teiran poked at the pile of debris with a hasta. It hit something mental, and she tensed.

“Have all the other areas been scanned?” she yelled to the guard, who was standing a fair distance away from her, with his shield up. 

“Quite sure!” he shouted. “Explorer Jack said he thought he found one behind his house, but it turned out to be an old pie-tin!”

Teiran sighed. The mess the armies had left behind was bad enough, but they had to go ahead and abandon a bunch of landmines as well. She’d been able to grab and dispose of most of them with a well-timed telekinetic grab, but some were proving to be harder to retrieve than others. 

She poked the pile with the hasta again. It clunked, and she paused, listening for the tell-tale click that usually preceded a hasty retreat — often skyward. 

The mine failed to make a sound. She turned the spear around, wood-end first, and heartily smacked it. 

Nothing interesting happened. 

She got up and walked to the pile. “This one’s inert!” she yelled, fishing the mine out. “Here, I’ll take it over to the rubbish heap with everything else.”

The mine clicked in her hands. 

“Oh, sh —”

* * *

Her ears were still ringing when she woke up in Death’s Office. She stood up and dusted her clothes off. 

“Stupid,” she muttered. “I should have just teleported it to Dareeyak…”

A polite cough turned her attention to the desk.

“Ok, this time it was the real deal,” she said. “And I rather think I’ve been pretty good about the last few we —”

A reaper-shaped hole interrupted her thoughts. Where Death usually sat was now occupied by a considerably shorter, stouter, black-haired, balding, bewildered-looking man. He was wearing a tattered Halloween costume hood and looking rather sheepish. 

“Hello?” he said. “Erm, you’ve, uh, died, I’m afraid. It may come as a bit of a shock.”

She peered at him. “Who are you?”

The man nervously cleared his throat. “Yes. Ah. I’m Frank. Friend of Harold’s. I’m filling in for him.”

She looked around the office. Everything, with the exception of the man behind the desk, seemed to be in place. 

“Where is he?” she asked. “On holiday? Can he even do that?”

“He can,” Frank said helpfully. “But I don’t think he is this time. Usually he sends me a note a few months ahead.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Oh. I nipped by to ask for some sugar and he was gone. I waited for hours and hours, but he didn’t come back. Muncher’s not been out, either, which isn’t like him.”

Something behind the desk began to growl. Frank grabbed a ruler off the desk and waved it around. 

“Down! Down boy! No! Not the foot! Stop! NO! Off! Leggo!”

There was a crunch of wood, and the barking subsided. Frank placed the half-eaten ruler on the desk with a sigh. 

“I’ve been starting to get worried. It’s been a couple of weeks since then, and I’m not sure who to turn to.”

“So you think he’s missing?”

“Presumably.” He flipped through the large book in front of him, tracing his finger down the list of names. “Never you mind that, though. Now, since you’re dead, you — oh. It seems you’re on the no-hit list.”

“Unfortunately,” Teiran said. “When was the last you’ve seen him?”

“Personally? Not since Raktuber, when Famine was having a do for his half-birthday. Here, I’ll check the last assignment he ran.”

Frank flipped through several pages of the book, stopping at an intersection of chicken-scratch script and gothic serif.

“Hmmm. Last one was by Silvarea. Weird. It’s not been ticked off yet…”

Before he could add anything else, Teiran was out the door, armour in hand. Frank watched her go, and suddenly remembered something.

“Hey! You forgot to pay the fee!” 

* * *

The first thing Teiran noticed when she arrived in front of the Paterdomus was the smell of blood, a metallic and vicious stench that crawled down her throat and seized her with immediate alert. 

The second thing was the moans, shuddering and pained. They echoed through the pass like a ghostly wind, and they seemed to come from several places.

The third thing was the old monk, hunched over a crate and shaking. He was covered in blood.

Teiran ran over, her hand on her weapon for unexpected surprises — at least, surprises beyond what she’d already encountered.

“What’s going on here?” she asked the monk. “What happened to you?”

The monk looked up at her, his eyes filled with fear. “Saradomin help us! Please, I don’t know if they’re coming back.” 

“Who?”

The monk looked back and forth across the pass. “Someone... murdered my brothers. Th-they left me alive. Why didn't they take me and not them?”

“Calm down,” she said, kneeling next to him. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “P-p-please,” he stammered. “Something’s happened to them. T-their souls…”

Teiran looked up. Scattered around the path were bodies — other monks, judging from their robes — in various states of disarray. Each of them had a blue haze hovering over them, shuddering and crying. 

She approached the one closest to her. As she neared, the haze became clearer, showing itself to be a ghostlike figure. A thin, glowing blue strand anchored it to the bloodstained body below, which seemed to have died while kneeling. 

Teiran swallowed back bile as she took the scene in.  _ Focus, _ she told herself.  _ This doesn’t quite seem to be a ghost, so maybe you can talk to it. _

“Hello?” she said, softly. “Can you hear me?”

The soul shuddered. “Can't... Can't remember... Saradomin's light, release. Please…”

“It’s ok,” she said. “I’m here to help. Can you remember what killed you?”

The spirit merely let out a whimper. 

Teiran sighed, and examined the body. The arms were pale, as though drained of all blood. As she turned it over, something blue glinted in its chest. 

She pulled a dragon dagger out of her bag and, as delicately as she could, freed a small crystal arrowhead from the corpse’s flesh. 

“Hmmm,” she muttered. She took out an old handkerchief, folded the crystal into it, and pocketed the lot.

She returned to the monk, still huddled on the chest. “Can you remember what the killer looked like at all?” she asked. 

The old man shook his head. “N-no. We were traveling to the Paterdomus… missionaries, on our way to Burgh de Rott. All I remember… the world seemed to become darker, for a moment. After that, it was a blur.”

He shuddered. “Please, tell me. What happened? What’s going on with their bodies?”

“I think.. Their souls are still bound to them. They can’t pass on.”

“Why not?”

“Death’s gone,” she said. “Someone — or something — has him trapped somewhere.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “No idea. Some folks get funny ideas about immortality. They think if they capture Death, they’ll get everlasting life, which I can assure you isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.”

She surveyed the pass again, noting where the bodies lay. “I have a feeling that whoever slaughtered your brothers did it to lure him. If we find the killer, we find Death.”

“You’ll help me, then?” the monk tearfully asked. 

“Of course. I didn’t catch your name, by the way.”

“Brother Samwell. Saradomin bless you — er…”

“Teiran.” She handed the monk a staff of earth. “Can you do magic?”

“A little.”

“Good. Be prepared to.”

She examined each of the remaining bodies in turn. They had all been killed with ruthless efficiency, with wounds to the heart conducted with pinpoint accuracy. She drew some comfort from the fact they had probably died quickly. 

She headed up the hill towards the temple, and saw something glinting in the tree by it. She inspected it, and found an arrow stuck into its wood. She wrenched it free and scrutinized the bluish, crystal tip. 

The dead elf ranger, sprawled westward on the way to the broken bit of fence, made her raise an eyebrow. The Saradomin symbol burned onto its left hand made her raise another. When she found the Serenic signet ring in the patch of grass, she let out a snort. By the time she discovered the Saradominist necklace she smiled — grimly, and tightly. 

Brother Samwell’s eyebrows crossed in confusion when she returned. “What have you found? Why are you smiling?”

She dropped the evidence on the ground in front of him. “Well, we know who didn’t do it.”

“What do you mean?”

She picked up the arrow and the signet ring. “Recognize this?”

“That ring… that is the symbol of Seren, I believe. And the elves use crystal, do they not?”

“They do. How convenient that I found these near a dead one just up on the hill.”

“So you believe it was an elf that killed my companions?” the monk said eagerly. 

“I didn’t say that,” Teiran said. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t from Tirannwn.”

“How do you know?”

She flicked the arrow. “First of all, elves hold crystal to be sacred. They believe that Seren shattered herself into it to be with them when Guthix kicked the gods out. They wouldn’t leave bits of their goddess behind in some monks. Secondly, there’s no such thing as a crystal arrow. Crystal bows manifest their own ammo.”

She put the arrow down. “Third of all: Elves are efficient. They don’t revel in bloodshed. They’d clean up after this. And they wouldn’t leave behind witnesses.”

The monk gulped. “So you believe someone killed the others, and is trying to frame the elves for it?”

“It gets better.” She picked up the necklace. “Look familiar?”

The monk’s face paled. “You’re not saying…?”

“It’s funny, really,” she said. “How hard it is to lose a necklace. You practically have to do a cartwheel if you want one to come off. Now, if this were a chain-clasp, I’d get it. Those damn things break all the time. But look — the loop’s still whole. It’s almost as though someone wanted to leave behind a trail.”

She put the necklace back down. “And the burned holy symbol? That’s just sloppy. Saradominist zealots do a lot of horrible things, but ritualistic mutilation is not one of them. Hell, they could have left a note with “Commander Zilyana did it” in the pocket and it would’ve been more subtle.”

“What does this mean, then?” Samwell asked. “If someone is trying to frame the elves, and indicate that Saradomin retaliated…”

Teiran looked at the evidence in front of her. Who was this trying to trick, anyways? She’d seen better setups from a bunch of whiny rich kids from Seers’ Village. Then again, knowing how hamfisted Saradomin could be with his accusations, and with tensions already high...

“Someone’s trying to start a fight. One of godly proportions,” Teiran said. 

“Indeed,” a barking voice said, creeping into her head. “You are apt to deduce this. I fear more sinister forces are at work.”

Teiran let out a yelp. “Oi!” she shouted. “Anyone bothering to speak into my brain can bother to show themselves!”

“Sorry.” The air shifted, and a towering jackal-headed figure appeared in front of them. 

Brother Samwell screamed and fell over, his body limp. Teiran immediately checked his pulse, breathing a sigh of relief when she found it.

“Really, Icthlarin,” she scolded, standing back up. “It’s not fair to give people a shock like that. Most folks outside of the desert are used to human-headed gods. Armadyl excepting, of course.”

“Sorry,” Icthlarin barked. “It’s been awhile. I suppose I’ve been spoiled by the Menaphites.”

“Ah, well. Poor fellow could use a rest anyways. What are you doing here?”

“Much the same reason you are.” Icthlarin took in the crime scene, his snout wrinkling as he sniffed the air. When his eyes caught upon the souls still bound to the monks’ bodies, his expression softened, his ears flicking back.

“Poor spirits,” he whined. “Without severation from the reaper, they will remain in the mortal world, unable to pass on to the afterlife, but unable to repossess their dead bodies. It is a terrible state to be in.”

“So Death _is_ missing.” She watched the spirits continue to struggle, crying and whimpering. “Can nothing properly die now?”

“On Gielinor? No. In other realms, there are other reapers, of course. I myself know of one where there is even a death of rats. But without RuneScape’s Death, what you see before you will only continue.”

“Who would do this?” Teiran asked. “Just kidnapping Death, hell, it could be anyone. But framing the elves? And the Saradominists? With a scene that screams ‘badly-written mystery board game?’” She shook her head. “And Samwell… he said he doesn’t remember anything. Just darkness. And shadows…”

Icthlarin’s ears flicked, flat against his head, and his snout curled into a snarl, exposing a set of pearly-white teeth. 

“Sliske,” he growled. “I should have known.”

“Sliske?” Teiran echoed. “But —”

She was interrupted by a distant rumbling underneath her. A shadow seemed to pass over the sun, and the world became dark. 

When it lightened again, four figures circled them. They looked human enough, if it weren’t for their sickly green skin and eyes, emanating an all-too-familiar glow. 

“Huh,” Teiran said, eyeing the wights. “You know, Icthlarin, I’m rather beginning to think you’re on the money.”

“No time for banter, adventurer!” the god barked. “Let us dispatch these creatures before we continue our investigation!”

She unfurled her whip. “On it.”

Though they were outnumbered, fighting with a god on her side made things considerably smoother. The fact that they were rather pitiful wights, she reflected, probably helped. 

She kicked away the last undead. “That was easy. Do you think Sliske’s losing his edge?”

Icthlarin snorted. “I doubt it. This, I suspect, was to send a message.”

As the last wight fell, something tumbled from its robe. Teiran picked it up, turning the boxy object over in her hands. 

“There’s our message, then. What else would a wight be doing with a puzzle box?” she mused. “Unless Sliske’s trying to tell us he’s into treasure trails…”

She flipped it around, and traced her hand over the grinning mask carved into the side. “Talk about tacky.” 

“Tacky?” the mask said. “Oh, and how are that hat and that armour not tacky? You adventurers have no fashion sense.”

Teiran nearly dropped the box, catching it in mid-air. The mask, now facing the ground, laughed woodily. 

“Oh, you should have seen the expression on your face!” it giggled. “I don’t know what shocked you more — me talking, or me insulting your wardrobe! Ha! I wish I was a camera box!”

Teiran flipped the box again. The mask leered at her. 

“What,” she said, “In the Abyss are you?”

The mask grinned even wider. “A humble projection of my not-so-humble master! Here to deliver an invitation to a certain dogged fellow who, no doubt, is present.”

It turned its eyeholes to Icthlarin. “Icthlarin, I am here to deliver you an invitation to a most exclusive event! The greatest to take place for hundreds of years... Sliske's grand ascension!”

The mask blew a raspberry, releasing a puff of multicoloured confetti. 

Teiran annoyedly brushed the crepe paper off her platebody. “Ascension? What, Sliske thinks he’s a god now?”

Ictharlin shook his head. “In light of recent events, he must think so.”

He turned to the box and growled. “Do you think I’ll respond to an invitation by a twice-turned, backstabbing snake?”

The mask pouted. “Oh, Iccy, don’t be such a downer. If you come, there might be caaaaaake.”

“No.”

“Oh, fine.” The mask rolled its eyeholes. “I figured you might need some persuading. What if I told you that your old friend Harold Death  _ comma _ Esquire _ dramatic pause  _ were to attend?”

Icthlarin’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean to say…?”

“Oh, I do.” The mask grinned. “But, of course, feel free to decline. Go back to your pyramid, by all means! Have a night in. Put on your pyjamas and catch up on  _ Gods Exposed _ . Zaros knows you need a little break.”

“I will do no such thing!” Icthlarin snarled. “Bring me to Death now, construct!”

“Okie-dokie! Just open me up and you’ll be teleported to the party.”

Teiran gave the mask a hard look. “What if I were to open the box myself?”

“Oooo, a gate crasher!” the mask cooed. “You’d be teleported in, too. The more, the merrier!”

“And what if I were to throw you in a conveniently-nearby beacon brazier and burn you to ashes?”

The mask pouted again. “Why, that would be terribly inconsiderate. And you would also lose your ticket in. So I wouldn’t do that.”

Teiran sighed, and turned to Icthlarin. “It looks like we don’t have much of a choice here, do we?”

“No.” He growled at the box, which merely laughed. “We do not.”

She glanced to Brother Samwell, who was still slumped, knocked out, on the ground. She contemplated teleporting him to Ardougne, and then considered that subjecting him to waking up in a strange place with a demon hovering overhead wasn’t a good idea — butler uniform or no.

“He’ll be alright,” she said. “I think.”

Icthlarin waved his hand. A shimmering dome appeared over the monk. 

“That should ward against most things,” the god said. “Hopefully, we shall not be gone long. Are you ready, adventurer?”

She nodded. And, with the mask still leering at her, she opened the box. 


	43. Sticks and Stones

Teiran had never been to a citadel before. She’d heard of them from adventurers who were in clans using them (or, at least, arguing over how the layouts should go), but this was the first time she’d ever stepped foot in one. 

She peered over the edge. She couldn’t see how far below the ground was through the haze of clouds. She wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. 

Instead, she focused on planting her feet as firmly as she could in heavy steps towards the lobby.

The room was full of people. Well, sentient beings, at least. Teiran wasn’t sure what the correct collective vocabulary could be applied to a giant demon, an elf, an icyene, an ourg, three bird-people, several mahjarrat, seven wights standing in front of a gilded entrance and a horned shadow-maid floating on a dark cloud. Possibly the word ‘mob.’ 

They certainly looked angry enough. The air was thick with arguments.

Teiran felt their eyes on her as she and Icthlarin stepped into the citadel, and the room quieted for a moment before the discord returned, now louder and angrier. The Barrows brothers, who were standing in a semicircle around what seemed to be the main door, remained stoic. 

“What’s the plan?” she whispered. 

Icthlarin sniffed the air. “No doubt the other gods are in the citadel sanctum itself. Their entourages are not allowed in, if their loitering here is any indication. I will have to continue without you.” 

“Hmmm.” She scanned the area, and spotted a side door. “I’ll do some snooping and see if I find anything. How hard can it be to find an eight-foot-tall skeleton with a scythe? It’s not like he could fit in a linen closet.”

Icthlarin bared his teeth. “Be careful, adventurer. Sliske delves in shadows and trickery. Do not let your eyes deceive you in this place.”

“Duly noted.” She turned away from the god and focused her attention on the door. “Good luck in there.”

Icthlarin simply nodded, and headed towards the door guarded by the Barrows. Akrisae was standing next to Arhim, his face hidden by his hood and his glowing eyes staring blankly forward; she did her best to avoid them.

The other emissaries either ignored her or gave her dirty looks as she passed through. Commander Zilyana was arguing with an elf, her wings bristled in fury. General Graador merely grunted as she passed by. K'ril Tsutsaroth didn’t even spare her a glance, though the aviansie did seem to be watching her closely. 

The mahjarrat were split in groups of two. Zemouregal and Enakrha seemed to be deep in conversation, occasionally side eyeing her. 

And, of course, the path to the door was blocked by the Zarosians. Teiran sighed, and braced for impact.

“Wahisietel,” she greeted. “Azzanadra.” 

Wahisietel nodded, while Azzanadra remained stony faced. 

“Human,” Wahisietel said. “What brings you here?”

“I’d ask the same of you,” she said. “I’m surprised Sliske hasn’t let his fellow Zaros fanclub members in with him.” 

“I am surprised as well,” Wahisietel replied. “Our god’s absence from this realm means that appropriate representation must be sent instead. However, we were not invited.”

“What a shame,” she said. “You know, I think he should be thanking you, considering how you gave him a convenient excuse to go and slaughter the one god who didn’t want to turn Gielinor into scorched ruin.”

Azzanadra scowled. “We merely wished to bargain, mortal. Guthix’s death was not our intention.”

“Really? You barging into his sanctum wanting to bother him about bringing your stupid god back threw me off a little.”

“DO NOT INSULT THE NAME OF ZAROS IN FRONT OF ME!” Azzanadra bellowed. The outburst shocked the crowd into silence for a moment, before they returned to their own affairs. 

Azzanadra took a breath, and attempted to compose himself. “Your devotion to a dead god’s ideals have twisted your mind, human. If anything, Zaros is needed here more than ever. He will enforce order among the other gods, and put an end to whatever machinations Sliske is no doubt putting in motion. My lord’s return is nigh. I would recommend that you be on the right side when it occurs.”

Teiran narrowed her eyes. “Over my dead body,” she growled. “Which has just become a lot harder to achieve.”

At this point, Wahisietel stepped in. “This is no time for incessant bickering. Sliske, no doubt, wants us to wallow in drama and dissention. We would be misgiven to indulge him.”

Teiran broke her graze from Azzanadra’s. “Fine.”

Azzanadra merely gave her a hard look, and gave no other reply.

She turned to Wahisietel. “Do you think Sliske is actually trying to make himself a god?”

Wahisietel’s face turned grim. “What we believe is irrelevant, what we know is important,” he said. “Sliske is not only mischievous; but he is also dangerous. I'm not even sure he trusts himself.”

“Hmph,” she grunted. “Wise move, on his part.”

She turned away from the mahjarrat. “You two have fun with your speculation. I’m going to snoop around.” 

Wahisietel nodded, and allowed her to pass. Azzanadra continued to glare at her. 

She paid him no mind, and headed to the door, which opened easily on well-greased hinges. 

The next room was… crowded. Boxes piled upon boxes piled upon boxes threatened to mate with other piles of boxes, resulting in catastrophic cubic proliferation. Stacks of papers indicated that Sliske either lacked a filing system, or that it had been overwhelmed by sheer volume. As for the books, strewn about haphazardly in various states of misobiblic torture, Teiran was fairly sure that if she ever brought round Reldo there would be blood. 

“Ye gods,” she said, stepping over a small crate. “He could give my room a run for the money. Does his maid actually do anything?”

She opened a box at random. It was full of smoke bombs. She opened a second one, which held similar contents. With a side of frustration, she grabbed a book off the top of a pile and flipped through the pages. 

Every single one contained a rude drawing of Wahisietel. 

She threw the book to the side. Spotting a window, she clambered over a set of boxes and looked outside. She could get a pretty good view of the main citadel room from here; and, judging from the sound of petulant voices, a fairly good listen. 

The gods were quarreling. Armadyl, who was scrawnier than she expected for a bird-god, was screeching at Saradomin, who was looking as indignant as ever. Zamorak, now much smaller than his form in the Battle of Lumbridge, was looking smug. She deduced that the heavily-armoured, hulking figure stomping its feet and bellowing was Bandos. Icthlarin had just entered, looking bewildered.

There was also a cabbage. A rather large one. It didn’t seem to be doing much. 

She scanned the room for Sliske, but she didn’t spy him. She wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

As she glanced to the stage-like platform opposite of the crowd, she felt her right hand twinge. 

Slowly, she looked down at it. Her palm remained unmarked. 

She closed her eyes. “You’ve been bitten by a mosquito,” she muttered. “One that happens to be able to survive thousands of feet above the ground in a floating castle. Or maybe you’re imagining things, and Sliske is messing with your head.”

She closed her fist, trying to ignore the memory of the burn. 

_ It’s nothing, _ she told herself.  _ Don’t make a mountain out of a kebbit hill.  _

She tore herself away from the window. She had a job to do. 

Grunting, and wishing that she had foreseen to pack lighter armour, she began to climb over the crates. 

* * *

“You should just give up.”

Teiran looked up from the infernal control panel she’d been cursing at for the last fifteen minutes.

“Really?” she said to the mask. “And you don’t think that I perhaps entertained that thought when I first walked into this room?”

The mask sniffed. “Perhaps?” 

“You overestimate my love for puzzles. And you underestimate my hate for Sliske.”

She turned a dial. Something in the mechanism clicked, and the light image projected in the floor juxtaposed into a grinning visage.

The gloomy wooden mask next to the control panel pouted. The cheerful mask next to it grinned. 

“You did it!” it crowed. “Well done, adventurer!”

She gave it the side-eye. “Don’t patronize me.”

The mask blew a raspberry. “Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud. You can move on to the next room now! Isn’t that exciting?”

“Is Sliske there? Do I get to beat him to death with something big and heavy?”

“Now, now,” the mask chided. “Spoilers!”

Teiran rolled her eyes and headed to the next door.

She wasn’t sure if it was the air, or the endless barrage of pointlessly complicated puzzles, but she was growing more frustrated . The gods, last she checked, were still squabbling in the main room, and all she’d done was navigate a labyrinth of junk, kill some wights, and make a pretty light picture on the floor. There’d been no sign of Death anywhere. Even worse, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Just to be sure, she made a rude hand gesture at a random wall. 

Seeing no response, she grabbed the handle to the door and entered the next room. 

It was empty, save for a shadowy figure in the middle, illuminated by a single beam of light through a window. It was tall. It had a scythe. 

_ Oh, thank gods _ .  _ Finally. _

As she stepped forward, however, the hairs on the back of her neck raised. Years of dungeon-crawling, trap-dodging, puzzle-solving, dramatic cutscenes and frustrating quest chains were telling her that this was too easy. 

Teiran took a swordfish out of her bag, weighing it in her hand. Taking careful aim, she threw it at the figure. 

The fish landed on the figure with a wet flop, and slid to the floor. 

“Was that really necessary?” the figure said petulantly. “You could have just shouted. Or poked me. No need to go about, tossing fish like you’re in a Stooges skit.”

A light above the figure clicked on, revealing a crude statue of Death, bearing a mask over its face.

“Clever,” Teiran said. “If you’d added a few more wights to fight, I might have even fallen for it.” She took out a chinchompa. “Now tell me where Death is, before I turn you into a pile of rubble clogging up some fishing skiller’s inventory.”

“Now now, there's no need to be like that,” the mask chastised. “Why does everyone like Death so much anyway? He's so grim.”

“Oh, get to the bloody point.”

The mask leered. “How about this? We can play a game. You answer some riddles, and I’ll give you Death. The person, not the termination of your life. Ahahaha.”

She opened her mouth to argue, and then closed it. Anything more and it might start monologuing. 

“Fine,” she said. “Shoot. And don’t give me rubbish about men with lots of legs and such. Or ask me what I’ve got in my pockets. The answer is fish. And quite a lot of weaponry.”

“I wouldn’t dream of something so blase`. Here:

_ “I can build castles, _

_ That melt in the rain, _

_ But I trickle down, _

_ As the seconds drain.” _

“Easy,” Teiran said. “Sand.”

The mask grinned, a little unpleasantly. “Oh, yes. You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

She scrutinized the mask for a moment. “Am I right, or what?”

“You are!” the mask said. “Here’s the second one.

_ “Glass can't create me, but stone and steel do. _

_ I'm made by the sun, but out of its view. _

_ I can be tiny, and also be vast, in the shape of my maker,  _

_ Like a spell I am cast.” _

This one made Teiran think.  _ Stone and steel can create it… sparks? Fire? But it’s out of view of the sun… In the shape of the maker… like a statue? But you can use glass to make a statue. ‘Like a spell’… a rune? But there aren’t any steel runes. Spells… Sliske’s Zarosian. Blood... no. Smoke, maybe. Ice? Wait… _

“Shadow,” she said conclusively.

The mask raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Is that your final answer?”

She paused. “Yes.”

“Correct! And I thought I stumped your pretty little head there. Silly me!”

Teiran reddened. “Get on with it,” she growled. “Before I take you off the stupid statue and mail you to Party Pete for a children’s masquerade.”

“You know, on second thought — I think I’ll enjoy watching you fail,” the mask leered. “Ah, whatever. Your final riddle:

_ “Always present, always light _

_ I’m by every bed, I watch every fight _

_ No man rich nor poor from me can flee _

_ Yet others embrace, for I set them free.” _

Teiran felt her fists clench. “Death,” she said, dryly. “How thematic.”

“Indeed,” the mask said. “It’s only appropriate.”

She scowled. “I answered your stupid riddles. Now hold up your end of the bargain.”

The mask grinned, smugly and unpleasantly. “Mmm, yes. That was a bit of a lie.”

“WHAT?” Teiran grabbed her whip and unfurled it. “You waste my time just to turn around and move the goalposts?!”

The mask giggled. “You didn’t think I would just hand Harold over, did you? No, that would be too easy. It’s much more preferable to stab you in the back at the last minute. Oh, how very in-character for my master! Speaking of which, I think he’s making his grand entrance.”

Teiran turned to the window. 

The gods were still arguing, of course. Icthlarin seemed to be trying to calm everyone down, which only resulted in more shouting. The cabbage still sat placidly. 

A flicker of movement by the stage caught her eye. A small flare of smoke was sprouting from the floor. 

“Oh, no…” she muttered. 

Sliske appeared in a puff of smoke, his arms outstretched in greeting and his mouth wide with a triumphant smile. Two more smoke bombs went off beside him, the explosions silencing the cacophony of divine bickering. 

The smoke cleared, revealing two heavy cages on the mahjarrat’s either side. One contained the reaper, the blue lights in his eye sockets flickering with barely-contained fury. 

The contents of the other sent a chill down her spine. Thrashing in its confines like a rat in a trap was a dragonkin — it howled and struggled, bellowing fire from its clenched jaw. It seemed restrained, even within the cage — Teiran noticed that it was unable to open its jaw fully, which probably enraged it all the more. 

The gods gawked in shocked silence. Sliske took a paper noisemaker from his robe and blew into it. Somehow, its pathetic squeak was even more terrifying than the screams of the dragonkin next to him. 

“Surprise!” Sliske said. 

As she watched on in horror, she felt the palm of her right hand begin to burn. 

* * *

Teiran backed away from the window.  _ I need to get there. Fast. _

She scanned the chamber. Judging by the position of the window, she was reaching the end of this string of rooms. 

There was a door behind the statue. She opened it. It led to a balcony overlooking a garden, which seemed to be connected to the main lobby. 

“Jackpot,” she muttered. She leapt down from the ledge, rolling on the soft grass as she landed, and sprinted into the lobby to the main citadel door. 

The Barrows brothers, unmoving, still guarded the door. Terian planted herself in front of them. 

“Move it!” she said. 

To her surprise, the wights parted. She wasn’t sure if it was out of intimidation, or because they’d been told to. 

She didn’t care. Her legs now powered by fury, she marched past the guards and kicked the door in. 

* * *

Sliske seemed to be in the middle of a speech when Teiran entered. However, upon seeing her, he stopped, and grinned even wider than he had already. 

“World Guardian!” he delightedly exclaimed. “You’re late.”

“You. Free Death. Now,” she growled. In the core of her chest, a long dormant flame was flickering…

Bandos stood up out of his seat. “What is this human doing here?” he bellowed. “This is a meeting for gods only!”

“Yeah, well, I’d much rather be doing other things right now,” Teiran said annoyedly. “Like visiting my dentist, or doing my taxes, or sawing my own arm off, or playing Bounty Hunter. But here I bloody well am.”

“Now, now, children,” Sliske said. “Don’t stray your attention from the main event. My Grand Ascendency!”

He blew into the noisemaker again. It was beginning to get on Teiran’s nerves.

“Now,” he continued. “Are you all sitting comfortably? Good, good. The adventurer seems to be happy with standing angrily, so we’ll leave it at that. Now!” He clapped his gloved hands together. 

“As I was walking about Gielinor, all intentions innocent, I happened across a couple of items! Artefacts, you might say. Of the elder variety.” He paused for dramatic effect. “One was a nice little staff that Strisath here, to my left, happened to have in his possession. I’m sure you’re aware of that already.” He stared directly at Teiran and winked, and she felt a shiver crawl up her spine. 

“The other… well, it was, considerably trickier to obtain. Someone, for some reason, teleported it into the deep sea near Crandor. To say retrieving the Stone of Jas wasn't easy to retrieve it is putting it mildly. ”

Teiran angrily stepped forward. “You put that thing back where it came from!” she shouted. “Or so help me I will rend the flesh from your bones!”

Sliske shook his head. “Your threats really need some creative injection. Where’s the graphic descriptions? The clever wordplay? You  _ have _ lost your edge. And just when the story is starting to get interesting.”

He turned to the rest of the audience. “Now, where was I? Oh. Yes.

“You see, my dears, I’ve been a naughty boy indeed. I’ve lied to you about two things. First of all, there is no cake.”

She could have been imagining it, but Teiran swore she heard the giant cabbage grumble.

“Secondly,” Sliske continued. “This isn’t really an ascendancy. Not really in the sense that you know it. You see, I have no interest in godhood. Too much paperwork. Not enough me-time!”

“Get on with it,” Zamorak growled. 

“Oh, fine. The reason I gathered all of you people here today is to announce a grand competition! A free-for-all, you might say. A battle of the gods!”

Teiran froze. She imagined all of the gods in the room — not to mention Seren and Zaros, if they came into the mix — having an all-out brawl in the middle of Asgarnia. All giant-sized. All with their different armies. God Wars II, Elemental Boogaloo. 

And this time, Guthix wouldn’t be around to stop them. 

_ Oh, hell. _

The other gods were shouting rather loudly now. Bandos seemed giddy with glee; Armadyl looked like he was about to be sick. Zamorak was getting up from his chair, while Saradomin was yelling in general. 

Sliske raised his hands, and the clamour died down. “Now, now. I know this is all very exciting,” he said. “But I need to tell you the rules first! Which is to say, there aren’t any.” 

He grinned. “All’s fair in love and war, after all. Just kill as many gods as you can by the time Zanaris eclipses the sun. And the winner…. Will get the satisfaction of being the most powerful among you all!” 

He paused. “Oh, and the Stone of Jas. There’s that, too.”

Shocked silence filled the room. Bandos was nodding his head excitedly, while Armadyl’s feathers bristled. Saradomin, Zamorak, and Icthlarin merely froze.

Teiran was the first to speak.

“What?”

Sliske grinned. “See? I told you this would be fun!”

Teiran looked around at the other gods. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “You… you can’t believe him. He’s  _ Sliske _ . He killed Guthix! I saw it with my own eyes!”

Saradomin muttered something about the greater good. She shot him a nasty look. 

“No. Not this… craziness. You’re going to let Sliske allow you all to believe that he’s actually going to hand over the Stone? After you raze Gielinor to the ground fighting eachother? No. Not going to happen.”

“Oh, but, adventurer,” Sliske cut in. “Of course you’d want them to not fight. You wouldn’t want them to catch up to your kill count, hmm? You  _ did _ receive an invitation to this competition. You have as much a chance to the Stone as the others do. And, considering how aware you are of its capabilities, I think you have a vested interest in possessing it.”

Teiran felt another shiver down her spine. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play stupid. When you rejected my offer earlier, I realized that a measly five-minute chat just isn’t  _ enough. _ Why settle for a conversation when you can bring back the dead? Perfectly understandable, of course. And perfectly achievable, if you don’t mind offing a few gods along the way.”

Teiran felt her throat clench. Icthlarin turned to her.

“Adventurer,” he said, carefully. “What is he talking about?”

She swallowed, thickly. “It’s not important right now. I think we should focus on the situation at hand.”

Icthlarin sniffed in her direction for a moment, before turning to the rest of the gods. 

“The World Guardian is right,” he said. “What Sliske is proposing is madness. Open your eyes — he is manipulating you all. He is not to be trusted!”

Armadyl screeched. “I agree with the psychopomp,” he squawked. “We must seek peace through justice.”

Bandos let out a bellowing laugh. “Quiet, coward! I can smell your fear. This great battle will show who is strongest once and for all!”

The gods began to argue again, and Sliske rolled his eyes. 

“Ugh. Stop your bickering and get on with killing each other!” He eyed Icthlarin, and seemed to get an idea. 

“Here, I’ll start it off for you.” 

Sliske immediately fired a dark bolt of energy, knocking Icthlarin off his feet with a yelp. Before anyone could react, the mahjarrat snapped his fingers, and the cage around the dragonkin disappeared. 

“This has been  _ great _ fun,” Sliske said, as the dragonkin bellowed, and began to rise into the air on leathery wings. “But I have to get going. Catch!”

He lobbed something at Teiran, who caught it in midair. Her fingers closed around a heavy iron key. 

“Whether you free grimmy-grouch is up to you!” Sliske shouted. “Considering how much of a bother he’s been to you, I’d let him sit for a century or two and think about what he’s done. With that said — toodeloo!”

He blew into the paper noisemaker once more, and vanished. 


	44. Lasting

Chaos erupted. 

Between the excited bellowing of Bandos, Armadyl’s panicked screeching, and the roars of the dragonkin, Teiran managed to find the sense to duck behind the oddly-placid giant cabbage.

_ Think. Think. Think.  _ She wasn’t sure how she’d square off against a dragonkin — World Guardian or no — and she’d be of no use if she got charred and ended up back in Lumbridge. 

“Icthlarin!” she shouted. “Are you ok?”

The god grunted as he got to his feet. “Sliske’s attack did a number on me, but it’s nothing permanent,” he barked. A fireball sailed towards him, and dissipated against an invisible barrier around him. 

“Sliske gave me the key!” she shouted. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. “I can book it, but I might not be able to hold off the lizard.”

“Leave that to me. Free Death, and I’ll do my best to protect us.”

Teiran nodded. Strisath was letting loose fireballs at random now, blind with fury. Where they struck, small fires sprouted up, burning eerily well on the flagstone. 

Teiran peeked over the cabbage. The other gods had evidently absconded, leaving behind a scattered set of bare seats. 

“Cowards,” she muttered. Icthlarin had his arms raised, focusing on the barrier around himself. The dragonkin, enraged at his attacks bouncing off the god, was now focusing on him. 

_ There’s my chance. _ She began to run towards the cage, stamping out small fires in her path. 

The dragonkin roared, unleashing a new barrage of attacks against Icthlarin, who was definitely struggling to hold his shield up. 

“C’mon,  _ c’mon _ …” she nearly crashed into the enclosure when she reached it. Death watched her silently as she fumbled with the key, jamming it into the lock and twisting it with all her might. 

The lock clicked, and the cage door swung open. 

“Release,” he breathed. Finally. Thank you.”

“Save your thanks,” Teiran said, stepping back. “We’ve got a dragonkin with a bee up its arse on the loose, if you haven’t noticed. What do we do?”

“Run, mostly,” Death said. He snapped his fingers, and the two appeared at Icthlarin’s side. The god looked exhausted, and his barrier was growing fainter by the second. 

“Thank Elidinis,” Icthlarin exhaled. “Can you muster the energy to get us out of here?”

Death nodded. As he did so, the barrier sputtered and died. 

The dragonkin saw this, and roared. With all its might, it released one last, mighty fireball towards them. 

Teiran felt the heat of it as it hurtled toward them. Her eyes watered, and a memory of Draynor Village — one she’d tried to leave long buried — came bubbling up unbidden. 

She raised her arms instinctively, just as Death snapped his fingers again. A second later, the world around them vanished. 

* * *

When they reappeared in Silverea her heart was racing like a drum, and her breath had become one long shuddering gasp. 

Teiran collapsed to her knees and shut her eyes. Even the dim light of near-Morytania was too bright for her. 

“Human?” Icthlarin said, his voice soft. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, slowly. “Give me a moment. Please.”

She forced herself to slow her breathing, and tried to focus on the world around her. 

_ Ok. You’re here. It’s now. You’re safe. Ground is under my knees. It’s squishy and smells like shit. Not smoke. Not ash. Ok? You can hear the creepy bats and stuff flying around. And the monk souls. Well, maybe don’t focus on that. Open your eyes. There. It’s your hands. All your fingers are intact. You’re ok.  _

She stayed there for another minute before she felt herself stop shaking. She got up, slowly. 

“Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s not my first time with dragonkin fire.” 

She sighed. “Probably won’t be my last.”

Icthlarin nodded. “Death is attending to the fallen. I shall soon depart myself, and escort these spirits to their afterlife.”

Teiran watched the reaper. As he approached the monk’s soul, it seemed to sag with relief, and reached for him as though he were the sun. 

He lifted his scythe, and swung. There was a sound like ripping silk. 

The soul faded, its face filled with gratitude. 

“Remarkable,” Icthlarin said. “It is not often that I get to see Death at work. Perhaps it is for the best; the souls he meets are not often so joyful to see him.”

Teiran didn’t reply. 

Death finished his work, and glided over to them. 

“Human,” he said. “Thank you. The balance between life and death can now be restored. However, the events of today are deeply concerning.”

“Understatement of the Sixth Age,” Teiran said. “What now?”

Icthlarin flicked his ears. “Is it true that Sliske has the Stone?” he asked. “It would be simple enough for him to lie about it, and create some illusion.”

Teiran shook her head. “I’m pretty sure he had it. When he was making his stupid grand entrance, I… felt it. I’ve been around that thing a couple of times now, and there’s nothing like it.”

Icthlarin wrinkled his muzzle. “Then we are in for dark times ahead. We must be cautious. Gods will fall in the coming days. The Stone of Jas is too powerful to be ignored. Some may fight, some may go for Sliske, some may employ other tactics. But everyone will want the stone.”

Death looked at her curiously. “Sliske seems to have taken an interest in you,” he said. “Tell me — what ‘offer’ was he speaking of earlier?”

Teiran glanced away. “He came to me after the Zanaris thing. He offered to… connect me to the afterlife, so to speak. Let me talk to Cyrisus, one last time.”

Death regarded her carefully, and then released a long sigh. 

“I think,” he said, “we should discuss this somewhere more secluded.”

He turned to Icthlarin. “You’ll be seeing to the souls, I trust?”

Icthlarin nodded. “I’ll make sure Samwell gets to safety as well.”

“Very well.” Death snapped his fingers, and Silverea disappeared, replaced by the gloomy interior of his office. 

Frank looked up in surprise as they materialized. “Harold! You’re back. Doing ok? Things, er, have been a bit of a mess…”

Death waved it away. “I met a minor bump in the road, as some would call it. Thank you for handling the place while I was gone. I am indebted to you.”

“Naw, it’s fine. You’ve still got one on me for house-minding last year. 

As Frank saw himself out, Death pointed to the chair in front of his desk. “You. Sit.”

“You know,” Teiran said, as she seated herself, “shouldn’t you be off seeing to all the other tethered souls and such? I mean, RuneScape’s a big place. There’s probably half a dozen people dying as we speak.”

“Indeed, there are,” Death said, sitting down behind his desk. “Part of my power involves being a metaphorical concept. I can be in many places at once; in fact, at this moment, while I am speaking to you, I am also at the bedside of an old man in Burthorpe. I am practically a permanent fixture in the Wilderness volcano and the Lumbridge chicken coop.” He cocked his head. “Hmmm. Someone is attempting to traverse White Wolf Mountain. They have minimal armour and quite a few charms. Foolish.”

“So how did Sliske capture you?”

“It is also part of the metaphor,” Death said. “Sliske did not so much capture my physical form as he did the concept that lends me my ubiquity. He did not capture me like you would capture a bird; instead, he captured Death. Do you understand?”

Teiran shook her head. “It doesn’t make much sense to me, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Very well,” Death said. He sat back, and steepled his bony fingers together. “Now, tell me. Why did you free me back in the Citadel?”

She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re Death. Can’t have people going about not dying. It’d make my day job a lot harder.”

“Sliske seemed to be goading you into leaving me.”

“Maybe he was. I give his suggestions about as much weight as a spottier cape.”

“Hmmmm.” Death tapped his fingers thoughtfully, the bone clicking like china plates. “I assume you acted as such when he initially extended an offer to you?”

“Are you kidding me?” she said, nearly standing up out of her chair. “The only reason I didn’t try and beat him senseless when he showed his face to me was because of a magic essence headache!”

“Hmmmm,” Death said again. “While I am not one to condone violence, I would not say that was an incorrect course of action to take. And now he has grown more dangerous.”

He unsteepled his fingers and looked straight at her. “I will be forthright with you, adventurer. I do not know, truly, if Sliske is capable of what he is offering you. Earlier, I would have said that is impossible. But with the Stone of Jas in hand, the line between the impossible and the possible has become rather more blurred.”

She clenched her jaw. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to trust him.”

“A wise decision. Even if he were able to offer a glimpse into the afterlife, he may try to use it to manipulate you.”

“That’s not going to happen.”  _ Not after last time. Not after my stupidity at the plateau.  _

Death looked at her thoughtfully, not speaking, and then slowly stood. He walked over to the hissing rows of hourglasses and regarded them with an air of sorrow.

“Adventurer,” he said. “My treatment towards you in these last few meetings… may have been harsh. Unnecessarily so. I will admit, my sense was clouded by grief. But that is no excuse.”

Teiran didn’t reply.   


“I have… forgotten,” Death continued. “I have kept my station for many thousands of years. I have seen millions of souls be severed by my blade. I have seen agony. I have seen sorrow. I have seen gratitude. But it has all blurred together. One death after another. Though I still can recall every single one.”

Teiran remembered something. “Back in Guthix’s cave… didn’t you mention that you were human, once?”

“I was.” The sand of the hourglasses cast an eerie look on his face. “Long ago. I was the first to die on Gielinor… before Jack. Before Laura. Even before Misalionar was slaughtered. But I met them all. For I was first to die, and Guthix appointed me guardian of my fate.”

“Was it lonely?”

“Yes.” He was stone-still — stiller than any human possibly could be — as he said so. “Terribly. Though I had the privilege of seeing many of my friends and family when they passed through the veil, I knew I could not join them. It was humbling. And it nearly broke me.”

“What did you do, then?” 

“It took time. Centuries. I found solace in my work — that I was keeping the balance in the world. It was painful when I came to collect the souls of those who did not want to go. But many wished so because they loved the place they were leaving. Many were happy to live on Gielinor, as Guthix wished they could be. If I could protect that, then I found meaning.”

Teiran didn’t answer.

“I do not mean to say this is what you must do,” Death quickly added. “It is what I found comforted me. How you bear the burden of your guardianship is something you must find for yourself. And it is not a weight that is light.”

She nodded, slowly. “I’m going to have to figure it out, aren’t I?”

“Indeed.” Death turned to her, away from the hourglasses. 

“I know you are new at this,” he said. “And I cannot deny the fact that your actions are often… brash. However, I rest my trust in the fact that Guthix chose you to act as the guardian of this world. And your actions today… they have proven that this trust is not misgiven.”

Teiran shrugged. “Like I said, I can’t go about having things not die. My income would go right out the window.”

Death grinned. He always did, being a skull. But somehow he managed to emphasize mirth. 

“Such is the way of things,” he said.

She thought of something, suddenly. She wasn’t sure if she wished she did or not.

“You say you remember every death,” she said. “Do you remember someone named Cyrisus? It would have been about a year ago.”

“Yes.” Death sat down behind his desk. “He died well, if it comforts you.”

“You’d know, I suppose,” she said. “Um… so you did meet him? Personally?”

“I meet all those who pass beyond the veil,” Death said. “Old. Young. Rich. Poor. Every imp. Every goblin. Every cow and chicken and man.”

“Did he say anything?”

Death sighed, and looked to the hourglasses. “He was… confused, at first. He wasn’t sure what happened. That is the case with most mortals. He asked where you were.”

She nodded, slowly. “He’d want to know I was safe, I suppose.”

“He did inquire as such. I told him that you had not passed into my domain, and he seemed relieved at this.”

“Yeah. He would be.” She looked at the floor. “Did he say anything after that?”

“He was saddened, I recall, that he had to leave this world,” Death said. “He said he wished he could have stayed longer. In the end, he accepted his fate, though with sorrow.”

“Where did he go afterward?” she asked, her voice thick. “I mean, he wasn’t really a devout Saradominist, and he wasn’t a proper Fremmnik, I don’t think he ever did the trials…”

“There is an afterlife for Guthixians,” Death said. “Though it is… vague. Even Icthlarin does not know its exact nature.”

“Ah. I….” she paused. “I just hope he’s ok.”

“He’s dead. Beyond the burdens of this world,” Death said, in a voice that he probably thought was soothing. “Do not pity him. Pity the living.”

She didn’t reply, instead remaining lost in thought. Death continued.

“It is not an easy thing, being a Guardian of Guthix,” he said. “But one thing is certain. Your fate is tied to this world. And all things must come to an end.”

She snorted. “That’s a bloody cheerful way of looking at it.”

“It is how things are. And how they always will be,” Death said. “Such is the way of life. Such is the way of death. Such is the way of the universe.” He sighed. “Do not let it embitter you, human. That will be difficult, as well.”

“I know.” She turned to the door. “I…” she paused. “Thank you. For telling me about him. I…”

She sighed. “Gods, I miss him.”

“I know.”

She stood, awkwardly, unable to think of a reply. 

“I should go,” she said. “Home.”

She estimated that it was really only mid-afternoon, but all she really wanted to do was retreat to Ardougne and have a cup of tea. And probably tell the poor Lumbridge guard she traumatized that she wasn’t really dead…

“Very well, then,” Death nodded. “I would express my wishes to see you soon, but that would be rather counterintuitive, don’t you think?”

She waved it away. “Oh, you know me,” she said with a weary smile. “I’ll be back in less than a week, probably because I slipped on the Wilderness agility log.”

“Very well. When you do, let me know. I’ll have the kettle on next time.”

“Sure.” She paused. “Stay safe. Sliske isn’t one to repeat stunts, but….”

“I’ll be on guard,” Death said. “As, I hope, you are.”

“Trust me,” she said tiredly, heading for the door. “I will be.”


	45. Path of Peril

RuneScape continued to shift, in unpleasant ways. 

Tensions were high no matter where Teiran went. She couldn’t walk six feet from a lodestone without being eyed by some emissary of some god. She wasn’t sure what was worse — the Saradominist with her pamphlets, or the Bandosian with the complimentary severed heads of the conquered. Everybody was wearing god regalia now, as well, and not just for the sake of boosting their armour. 

The land itself seemed to crack and weep. Miniature versions of the rift by Lumbridge, which had long since fizzled and died, sprouted by like blisters in the landscape, emitting tiny wisps of light that floated overhead. One of the researchers studying the crater had told her it was residual energy, leaking out from Guthix’s death. 

Another told her it was the Anima Mundi bleeding. When she heard this, she immediately checked all the spirit trees, who were thankfully well; afterwards, she went to a certain treehouse by the seaside, south of Yanille, now empty, and feverently wished it wasn’t so. She then sat in front of a well-grown willow, still adorned with a weathered grey cap, and stared at it for some time. 

It was only a matter of time until the next clash broke out. This time it was north of Falador, when Bandos fell out of the sky and attempted to wreak havoc. 

Armadyl was already there when she arrived, and instead of the gods themselves towering over everyone, they had built towers — rickety things that creaked alarmingly and kept both divinities far away from their followers on the ground. This suited Teiran fine enough. 

She’d been prepared for another Battle of Lumbridge — and had nearly considered actually stepping into the old house, if only to keep her promise to Marianne of sleeping in an actual bed — but she was pleasantly underwhelmed. Most of the activity seemed to center on running around and collecting wisps.

This battle was more scattered, and less intense. The tension, of course, was there — but two gods glaring at each other from a couple of high-rises, waiting to kill each other, was not the epitome of ‘violent’ in Teiran’s book. 

There were skirmishes. Followers fighting followers over supplies and energy and other such nonsense. But they were isolated, almost contained, and not really new to the monster-infested landscape of Misthalin. Teiran had seen more bloodshed around the Falador guards.

It still didn’t stop her from paying some visits, which, in some aspects, were going a little more smoothly than the ones in Lumbridge. True, Bandos had told her in less-than-polite terms to piss off, but she managed to stub his toe before absconding. 

She was sitting on the opposite tower now, letting her feet dangle over the edge and admiring the blue haze beneath her. How the Armadylians had managed to grow grass up here was beyond her, but admittedly impressive. Bandos’ charging beam was a distant glitter. 

_It’s higher than the Wizard’s Tower,_ she thought. _But this far up, and you just can’t get a good view of anything._

Armadyl was perched beside her, his feathers rustling in the breeze. So far, he was the only god who, when she marched up the tower and shouted at him, didn’t tell her to fuck off, so she was feeling a little more diplomatic than usual. That, and yelling at Bandos had put her in serious need of a throat lozenge. 

“It’s pleasing to meet you in person, World Guardian,” Armadyl said. “I had seen you at the citadel, but it was a passing glimpse. Your actions in freeing Death understandably occupied you.”

Teiran shrugged. “Nice to have someone pleased to meet me. Usually it doesn’t go that way. Though I think that boils down to most of the people I meet wanting to kill me.”

Armadyl let out a squawk, which Teiran realized was probably his equivalent of a chuckle. “I’m surprised myself. I thought you would have tried to attack me.”

“Attacking gods, I’ve found, tends to be an exercise in futility.”

She paused, listening to the breeze whistle over the tower-top. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to unequivocally drop out of the competition?”

“There is little choice in the matter,” he said. “We all know it's a trap. We all know it's a trick. If any one of us claims that stone, it can only lead to complete disaster. So here we all are, trying to claim it so that when war happens, we have the edge.”

He paused. “And here I am, the great hypocrite, doing just the same. Wanting to be the first to get that stone so other, more dangerous gods don't. At least this time I have learned enough to face this battle without forcing my people to risk themselves If there is to be mortal danger, then I shall face it.”

Teiran sighed. “Well, at least you’re being egalitarian about it.”

“What have the others said of it?”

“Oh, you know.” She gestured vaguely. “Saradomin was all, ‘blah, blah, order of the world, people need a leader, yadda yadda.’ Bandos just wants to turn everything around here into Yu'biusk. Neither of them want to drop out.”

“What of Zamorak?”

“Can’t find him. He’ll show up, at one point or another. Probably.”

“Hmmm.” The avian god shifted his stance on his perch, never taking his eyes off the opposite tower. 

“You must think me a scourge on this land,” he said.

“Harsh way of putting it. You make my job more difficult. I’d rather none of the gods be here.”

“Yet you have worked with my people before.”

“Eh?” She turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“The Guardians of Armadyl. They have said much about you.”

“Oh. That would make sense.” She paused. “And I only really spoke to Idria.”

“They speak highly of you, nonetheless. Idria, in particular.”

Her eyes widened. “You knew her?”

Armadyl nodded. “Her prayers to me were frequent. I was saddened at her passing. She died espousing my ideals, and attempting to be diplomatic. Unfortunately, offers of peace are useless in the face of savagery.”

Teiran watched his expression carefully. It was hard to distinguish with his avian features, but he did seem genuinely disheartened. His feathers puffed unhappily. 

“I didn’t think you gods cared,” she said. 

“Many do not,” he said. “I cannot blame them, to an extent. It is wearying to see the fall of every sparrow. It is even more wearying to mourn it. My sorrow at my people’s death in the God Wars nearly destroyed me, and my agelessness has granted me much grief.”

“That’s…” she started. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not be. My decisions are my own. I have seen the passing of many of my loved ones, and I am thankful I got to know them for their whole lives. I only regret those who died because of what I wrought.”

Teiran didn’t say anything. The wind continued to whistle. Even though she figured they were nearly as high up as Eagle’s Peak, she felt no chill. 

“If you get the stone,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?”

Armadyl’s eyes glinted. “Hide it. Protect. Destroy it, if possible.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He shuddered. “I have seen its power. Once, I would have clamoured after it. But I have learned from my mistakes. And I will not make them again,” he added darkly.

“Someone would find it again. Sliske did, and we hid it at the bottom of the ocean.”

“That does not mean I wouldn’t try.”

“Hmph. If you do, don’t hide it under Ardougne. Everything seems to be bloody well buried there. Oh, and get something stronger than a glorified fire giant to guard it.”

“Ha,” Armadyl squawked. “I’ll take your advice to heart, World Guardian.”

She got up. “Well, it’s not like you’ll use it. I’m not going to let you take it.”

The god didn’t react. “I know.”

“Good. We have a mutual understanding, then.”

She turned to go, trying not to think about all the stairs she’d have to traverse. Falling off would probably be faster, but she had a feeling Death wouldn’t appreciate an unnecessary drop-in. 

She paused as she went to leave. 

“One more thing.” 

She looked over to the opposite tower, where Bandos still loomed. If she squinted, she could see the glint of his divine weapon’s beam as it charged.

“I don’t approve of this,” she said. “The battle thing, I mean. But at the end of the day…” she paused. 

“Finish him,” she said. 

Armadyl nodded. Off in the distance, Bandos laughed, his cruel guffaw carrying on the wind like the rumble of a distant mountain. 

“I will.”

* * *

Armadyl kept his word. A week later, and Bandos was a pile of rubble on the ground. The killing shot was admittedly impressive, and she had the fortune to be in Port Sarim when it occurred. Even then, as Armadyl stood over the war-god’s corpse, he did not look triumphant. Instead, he looked like he had just put an animal out of its misery. 

She may or may not have visited the rubble afterwards, before the scores of weeping goblins came to cart it away. She may or may not have flashed said rubble a rude hand gesture. She may or may not have taken a few pieces for the rockery. And she may or may not have filled said rockery with peace lilies.

She knew she still needed to find Zamorak, even if it turned out to be as productive a conversation as they’d had in the Battle of Lumbridge. Her inquiries however, were proving more or less fruitless. 

This wasn’t surprising, considering the Zamorakian she was on the best terms with was Evil Dave, whom she suspected held as much clout in the chaos god’s court as a potato in a field of landmines. As well, between all the cultists she’d slaughtered, demons she’d banished, dark plots she’d foiled and wine she’d stolen from the Temple of Chaos, she had a sneaking suspicion Zamorak did not hold her in high regard. 

She was caught off-guard, then, when a half-mahjarrat approached her while she was slaying grotworms. 

* * *

It wasn’t the most glamourous slayer assignment Teiran had ever taken, and honestly, it was probably below her skill level. But after the events of the past few weeks, she needed something easy and mindless to do. Even if it did end up getting her covered in grub slime. 

She kicked over a worm-corpse, grimacing as strands of goo oozed off of the body. Grateful for her gloves, she gingerly picked up a damp sheaf of banknotes the creature had dropped.

“Teak again?” she said. “Where in Gielinor do they even pick these up?”

She was about to start on another monster when a blast of energy struck it. The worm shrieked, and shriveled to a blackened, smoking husk on the ground.

Teiran looked up annoyedly. “Look, I know things can get crowded sometimes, but this dungeon’s practically empty. Go off to some other corner and quit kill-stealing.”

“I am not here to waste my time slaying worthless bugs,” the caster said. “I am here for you. You are the adventurer Teiran?”

Teiran looked the speaker up and down. She was human-shaped, sure enough wearing purple and gold armour and showing more skin than was probably practical for traversing a dungeon full of killer grubs. But there was something… off about her. Her face was lined with strange ridges and marks, and though Teiran tried to tell herself it was a trick of the dim cave-light, her eyes seemed to glow with concealed power.

“Who wants to know?” Teiran said, carefully. 

“I am Moia,” the woman said. “General for the rightful leader of Gielinor: Lord Zamorak.”

Teiran narrowed her eyes. “I’m not going to argue with that last point, because I don’t have the time, energy, or inclination. I’ll cut to the chase. What do you want?”

Moia raised an eyebrow. “My lord wants to see you. He is interested in your… expertise.”

“Expertise in what? Killing grotworms?” Teiran heaved a kick at the charred worm next to her. It rolled over, revealing a burned chunk of banknotes underneath it. “Standing in a bank and stringing lots of bows? Loitering on a riverbank and dropping all the fish I catch? Because if he’s looking for anything beyond that, then I’m not interested.”

“My lord believes you will be instrumental in the coming days,” Moia said. “He has the foresight to see your potential.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the World Guardian,” Teiran snapped. “Exactly what it says on the tin. Helping gods who have a track record of turning a good chunk of Misthalin into cursed, barren wasteland would be a little contradictory to my job description.”

“Zamorak wishes to parley,” Moia said carefully. “I know you’ve been looking for him. I offer you the chance to speak with him. I would consider it your last.”

Teiran considered this for a moment. Zamorak would most likely pop up again, though she had a feeling that when he did, he’d be less in a mood for a discussion and more hell-bent on destroying whatever was in front of him. And that would require more shouting than any threat lozenge could soothe. 

“Fine,” she said. “But just to talk. I’m not agreeing to anything. And, for the record, I’m rather hard to kill. So if you try and drop me into a room full of swinging blades or whatever, I’m just going to come back in a much worse temper.”

“I am well aware,” Moia said. “I am going to teleport you to him now. Brace yourself.”

The grotworm lair disappeared, replaced by a large foyer. A wave of red-tinted light assaulted Teiran’s eyes, as crimson emanated from the seal she stood on and oozed through cracks in the floor. A low buzz filled her ears, accompanied by a sense of dread. She scrutinized the stonework, which she recognized.

“Daemonheim?” she said. “What’s your boss doing hiding out in a glorified minigame?”

“Do not insult my choice of fortress,” a voice in front of her growled. “Bilrach has earned his title as my right-hand commander for providing me with this sanctum. Below the horrors that lurk in the floor above, I have found safety.”

She looked up. Zamorak stood before her, now smaller than when she had seen him in Lumbridge. A mahjarrat that Teiran didn’t recognize, but assumed was the aforementioned Bilrach, stood to his right, watching her with dispassionate regard. Moia stood to his left, her face expressionless.

“Hmmm. Well it was nice of you to invite me,” Teiran said. “Especially considering that the last time we really chatted, you flicked me off the top of a rampart. Good strategy there, making me land face-first into the Saradominist battlements.”

Zamorak regarded her cooly. “You were distracting me,” he said. “And I have no time for petty reconciliation. I require your services.”

“Before we get into that,” Teiran said. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to drop out of Sliske’s god-measuring contest?” 

“I have no intention of participating,” Zamorak said. “I never did. I think it’s utter madness.”

“Look, I ge— wait. What?” Teiran’s minecart of thought hit a strategically-placed coin on the tracks. “But… you’re the god of chaos. Wouldn’t gods trying to kill each other left and right be right up your alley?”

“No,” he said. “It is not true chaos. Sliske, no doubt, is endeavouring to control the outcome — befitting of the false god he claims to follow. His game is not a fair chance for the best god to win. It is a sham, coated with lies and trickery. I will not partake in such a farce.”

“Huh,” Teiran said, taken aback. “Well, paint me surprised. What about the Stone, though?”

“Sliske has no right to hawk such a prize. It belongs to me.”

 _Theeeeere we go. That’s the Zamorak we all know and love._ “Gonna have to disagree with that last bit. I don’t think the stone really belongs to anyone,” she said. “‘Cept Jas, probably. Whoever the hell that is.”

Zamorak raised an eyebrow. “Nevertheless. I endeavour to recover what belongs to me.”

Teiran connected the dots. “You want me to help you steal the Stone of Jas.”

“I cannot refute your word choice. But, in essence, yes.” 

Teiran blinked. “Why?”

Zamorak glanced to Moia. “As my general has probably already told you, you possess a very particular set of skills. Skills that we require.”

“I’m not a master burglar,” she said. “I need to cosh more volunteers at the Thieves' Guild before I can get there.”

“Thieves I can find by the dozen,” Zamorak said. “You, however, are unkillable. You are factionless — I have seen you speaking to the other gods. You are not bound by obligation to the divine. In fact, you are immune to it. And you have a connection to the stone.”

Teiran clenched her right fist. “What are you talking about?”

“We who have used the stone can sense when its power is near. I could, when we were at the Citadel. And I could detect that you could, too. The mahjarrat loyal to me said you have been imbued with its power not once, but twice. An action that, by all rights, should have killed you.”

“So you want me to be your stone-sniffing dog.”

“Not necessarily. I can detect the stone’s presence as much as you can. But you are able to move more freely. A god’s presence will no doubt draw attention.”

“So you want me in on your heist?”

“Yes.”

“Out of the question.”

Zanorak’s brow furrowed. “Bold of you, to refuse an offer from a god.”

“Bold of _you_ to ask the World Guardian to help someone who instigated the God Wars get his shiny toy back!” Teiran retorted, crossing her arms. “I can barely get a week between one of you wazzocks from starting a fight next to some major city and threatening to turn this place into a smoking ruin. I’m not about to go and help speed up the process.”

Zamorak grunted. “Very well, then,” he said, coldly. “If you do not wish to participate, there is no way I can compel you. The operation will continue without your presence.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you drag me all the way here, then?’

“I thought that you may be… reasonable. I myself have been, more than enough. I am willing to make concessions. However, if you will not help me, then I will use the Stone against you without mercy.”

Teiran’s jaw clenched. Zamorak looked dead-serious, his eyes glittering coldly. For all the pomp and circumstance in his hideout, Teiran had a feeling he wasn’t bluffing. 

“When do you need a final answer by?”

“Sunset.”

She took a breath. “Give me time to mull this over. How do I get back here?”

Moia tossed something at her. As Teiran caught it, she saw it was a wooden box with a metal grille embedded into it.

“The communication device will teleport you back to the sanctum,” she said. “Do not be late.”

Teiran tucked the box in her bag. She felt the stares of all three of them on her. Bilrach had said nothing, which, in retrospect, probably said a lot.

“I trust you’ll make the right decision,” Zamorak said. “Adventurer.”

“Oh,” Teiran said. “You can count on it.”

* * *

Part of her wanted to go to Rellekka. She missed that spot — how the cold cleared her mind, how the ocean soothed her nerves, how watching Olaf chase around rock crabs made her laugh — but she could never bring herself to go back there. Maybe it was because it reminded her too much of the events on the Frozen Plateau.

Maybe it was because it reminded her too much of him. 

So Teiran settled for the park benches near the Fishing Guild. They weren’t the most secluded place in the world, but, at the very least, she could enjoy the sunshine. 

She had her hat in her hands, idly spinning the brim between her fingers. It was becoming a little bedraggled from all the abuse that she had hurled at it; she really ought to get it repaired, or even get a new one. 

Even then, she didn’t want to. Her armour could change. Her weapons could change. She could change. RuneScape could change. But her hat was a soothing constant in a world of shifting chaos.

She continued to spin it, and hoped that a convenient solution would perhaps fall out of the sky. 

“Think, Teiran,” she muttered. “Think! How do you get a mahjarrat-turned-god from getting to the stone, while taking it away from another mahjarrat-turned-sort-of-god? Bloody mahjarrat…”

She shook her head. “Last time something like this happened, you just ended up leading Lucien right to it. But Zamorak’s got more resources than a half-baked mage and his dimwitted bodyguard…”

_If I’m there, then I can try and sabotage them getting to the stone. No, Zamorak would sense it. He’d know. If I get there at the same time, maybe I can teleport it away before him? I’ve still got those old teleorbs… He said he’d be willing to make concessions. What kind of concessions? And he wouldn’t have sent his general down to a grub-cave if he didn’t want me in on this. I’ve got leverage. I need to use it._

A slight breeze ruffled her hair, and she shivered. The temperature suddenly dropped.

She looked up. The world around her slowly drained of colour, sliding into greyscale.

“Huh?” She stood up. Her voice sounded muffled. The world around her seemed to be frozen in the moment. A nearby butterfly remained suspended, mid-air, while a sapling that had been swaying in the wind had stopped. 

She turned around. She saw a familiar ladder behind her — one that she normally couldn’t detect without a certain ring. 

“The shadow realm?” she said aloud. She put two and two together. 

“Sliske!” She yelled. “Show yourself!”

“There’s no need to shout,” Sliske said. “I’m right here.”

She turned. He was sitting on one of the park benches, his legs crossed, idly filing his nails. 

“What do you want?” she asked wearily. “I’m getting rather tired of trying to kill you. You just run away like a little weasel every time.”

Sliske inspected his hand. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. _I’m_ here to talk about the little heist you plan to pull off.”

“You know?”

Sliske rolled his eyes. “How could I not? The little half-breed snooping about my citadel might as well have shouted out the whole plan, for all the secrecy she kept. And Zamorak calls her a general? He’s lost his senses, living in a basement for so long.”

“What’s stopping me from telling them you know?”

“Ha! Like that would stop old Zammy,” he said, waving his hand. “He calls himself the god of chaos. Really, though, he’s a prideful ninny who’d rather forge ahead on the feeling of pre-emptive triumph, thinking about all the gloating he’ll get to do when he’s finished. Even if they know I know, I know them knowing I know, and me knowing that they know I know that they know what I know, won’t stop them.”

Teiran looked at him blankly. “Whatever you just said makes even less sense than usual. And that’s really stretching it.”

The mahjarrat grinned. “I lost you there for a moment, didn’t I? No matter. The fact of the matter is that I’ll be waiting for them. They’ll think that they can defeat me.”

“Fine then. Why tell me?”

“A good question!” Sliske clapped his hands together. “I’ll say it plainly. You’re a catalyst for chaos.”

“So I am. Does that make me more entertaining?”

“Exactly!” Sliske nodded cheerfully. “You’re catching on. You see, what you have here is quite the delightful little conundrum.” He then got up out of the park bench, walking a lazy circuit around the fenced enclosure. 

“Now, you have a few choices. Aren’t choices fun? There seem to be a lot more of them in these little escapades, especially after that funny game with the skeleton and the flower came out.”

“The way I see it,” he continued, “is that it can go three ways. Option one: you infiltrate the group and sabotage their whole operation, lying in wait until the most deliciously dramatic moment to upstage Zamorak himself! Option two: you simply go along with the plan and see what happens.”

Sliske raised an eyebrow. “And then of course, there's option three. You could — I suppose — side with Zamorak, but who in their right mind would do such a thing? Just to say so, of course.”

He grinned wider. “Of course, there’s always not the option to participate. But, after all, it’s the Stone of Jas! Who wouldn’t want power over all of creation? Dominion of the elements? Mastery over life… and, of course, death.”

Teiran said nothing. Sliske steepled his fingers together. “So? What will it be, then?”

She looked up. “Ok. Here’s what I’m going to do.”

She held up her hand, with two digits raised. “I give you the fingers.”

“After that,” she said, lowering her hand, “I don’t tell you anything. And then you go off and fuck yourself.”

Sliske pouted. “Oh, you’re no fun. Such wasted potential. You won’t even give me a hint?”

She said nothing. After about a minute of silence, Sliske rolled his eyes. 

“Fine. Have it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He snapped his fingers. Warmth and colour slowly started to leech into the world again. “Hmmm, I’ll have Guthan make popcorn again. I’m going to be watching my very own heist film, right in my house!”

As Sliske faded away into the shadow realm, his voice echoed on the returning breeze.

“Whatever choice you make, World Guardian — be sure it’s the right one!”


	46. Breaking and Entering

The sun was just starting to dip below the horizon when Teiran teleported back to the sanctum. Zamorak and Moia were where she left them; Bilrach had disappeared. 

“You’re late,” Moia spat.

Teiran shrugged. “How would you know? You’re in a dungeon. Sunset’s a rather relative term. Anyways, I’ve reached a decision.”

Zamorak nodded. “What is your choice?”

“I’ll help you.” She held up a hand. “On two conditions.”

“Number one: If you get the stone, you keep it the hell off of Gielinor. And Zanaris. I don’t care if you keep it in a pocket dimension, in the Abyss or whatever. But I’m not having you turn another part of the land into the Wilderness.”

Zamorak opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him. 

“Number two!” she bellowed. “If I get to the stone, you keep your squabbles with Saradomin, or Armadyl, or whoever, away from any inhabited areas. Do it in the middle of the desert. Do it in the Wildy. Do it in the Frozen Waste. I don’t care. But I do care if you air your dirty laundry where there are people.”

Zamorak raised an eyebrow. “You think you can order around the god of chaos and destruction, girl?”

“Do you want me to help you or not?”

Moia turned to him. “She will be disloyal to you, lord. She already is. We cannot risk having such a liability on this task.”

Teiran crossed her arms. “You can go ahead without me,” she said. “If that’s the case, then I’ll make every effort to stop you. If that means pulling Saradomin into this, so be it. If it means that I have to trail you thirty feet back and throw chinchompas at you at random intervals, I’ll head to the Feldip Hills and start stocking up right this very minute. If that means I sneak ahead and grab the stone before you can, then, by Guthix, I’ll do it. Kill me, and I’ll come back. And I won’t stop.”

“All I’ll say,” she continued, “is that my main motivation for helping you is getting that thing out of Sliske’s hands. And I. Fucking. Hate. Sliske. More than I hate you. Which is saying a lot.”

Zamorak said nothing. Instead, he stared at her, unblinkingly, his fiery gaze boring into her. She could see flame in that stare; it was the fire of destruction, of chaos and ruin. It had the glow of a house burning down and the intensity of a spewing volcano. However, though her eyes watered, she refused to blink. 

“I’m not lying,” she said. “You don’t need a bloody truth serum to tell you that.”

“I do not need to resort to druidic trickery,” Zamorak said. He turned to Moia, whose face was twisted in rage. 

“Calm yourself, general. I will not have our chances at recovering the stone ruined.”

Moia looked like she wanted to argue, but she held it back, merely nodding. 

He turned back to Teiran. “I concede to your conditions, mortal. If you aid me, in all aspects of regaining the Stone, then I shall abide by the conditions you set.”

“Swear it,” she growled. “Swear it on your godhood.”

Zamorak raised a hand. “I swear it,” he said. “As long as you hold up your end of the bargain.”

“I’ll start, then. Sliske knows we’re coming.”

He reacted with a look of dull surprise. “That is not unexpected. How do you know?”

“He showed up and gloated at me.”

“This is also not unusual, for Sliske. But it is no matter. I can deal with him when the time comes.”

He turned to Moia again. “Gather the others. I will have Khazard and the Kinshra’s leader handled.”

Moia nodded. “At once, my lord.” She teleported away. 

Teiran watched her go. Sliske had called her a half-breed, which struck her as odd.

_ Half-breed what? Mahjarrat? Is that even possible?  _

“What now?”

“Moia is informing the others, who shall assist in the quest. Two remain. General Khazard is abroad; he shall take some tracking. Lord Daquarius is situated too close to Taverley for Moia to operate covertly — the druids can sense her dark magic.”

“So you want me to fetch them?”

“Yes.”

She snorted. “Real use of my ‘unique talents,’ making me a messenger. But I’ll go, first thing tomorrow. I’m paid by the hour, so let’s hope Khazard isn’t too far.”

Zamorak said nothing, his face expressionless. She shrugged. You couldn’t win them all. 

For good measure, she looted the chests scattered around the dungeon when she reckoned he wasn’t watching. 

But even then, her heart wasn’t in it. 

* * *

Lord Daquarius shuffled the papers on his desk. For an order bent on chaos, mayhem, and destruction, the Kinshra generated quite a lot of bureaucracy. Which, the Black Knight leader reflected, was its own, special kind of evil. 

He rubbed his eyes. The weeks after the Battle of Lumbridge had been wrought with low morale through ranks already stretched thin. The return of Zamorak had been but a temporary rally. Now the god had concealed himself with a cryptic promise for revenge, and whispers of dissent were rippling throughout the order…

He stood up. Dark lord of the Black Knights he was, what he really needed now was a cuppa. 

Someone knocked on the door. He glanced at the hourglass on his desk. His next appointment wasn’t due for another hour. 

He took out a dagger, discreet enough to hide in his sleeve, and grabbed the crossbow from above his desk. You didn’t become the leader of a bloodthirsty bunch of Zamorakians on a firm handshake alone. 

“Come in,” he said, aiming the crossbow at the door.

It opened. A Kinshra guard was behind it.

Daquarius lowered the crossbow. “Captain Reaves? What do you want?”

The knight said nothing, simply stepping forward robotically. 

“Unless you’d like your captain to serve double-duty as a colander,” said a female voice from behind the knight, “then I would put down the pea-shooter. Besides, I’m not here to assassinate you.”

“On whose word?” Daquarius said, gripping the crossbow tighter. 

“Mine. And the fact that this fellow’s going to lose about a foot in height if you don’t do as I say.”

Reluctantly, Daquarius put down the crossbow, and raised his hands. “There. Let him go now.”

The knight relaxed. The hostage-taker stepped to the side, allowing the captain to leave the room, before shutting the door and standing in front of Daquarius’ desk. 

She was wielding a pair of dragon longswords and a cross expression. And a nice hat. 

“Have you ever considered getting a uniform that doesn’t totally conceal your employees’ faces?” she said. “I’ve seen house-parties that were harder to infiltrate than this place.”

“Identify yourself!” Daquarius spat. He squinted at her. “Oh, gods. Weren’t you the one who tore the Fortress apart looking for the Wand of Resurrection?”

She gripped the brim of her hat. “Yes. Thank you. You know, you don’t often get recognized for your work as an adventurer. You’ve really made my day.”

Daquarius paled. “What do you want? Don’t hurt my men, whatever you do.”

“I won’t. I’m here to deliver a message. Your boss needs you.”

Confusion flickered across the Kinshra’s face. “You don’t mean…?”

“Yeah. The man upstairs. Er, downstairs at the moment.”

Daquarius’ eyes widened. “You say that Lord Zamorak himself requests my presence?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Teiran slumped forward in disbelief. “Really? You think I do this for fun?” She gestured to the dungeon around her. “I take time out of my day to drag myself to Taverley, crawl through cobwebbed passages, dodge dragons and floating pickaxes, trick your guards with some shitty armour I bought for discount on the GE and hold someone hostage all the way to your office so I can have a laugh?” 

Daquarius narrowed his eyes. “You’ve opposed our order before. If I am to believe what you claim, then you must earn my trust. Otherwise, leave. I have an invasion on Falador to plan. 

She shrugged. “Fine. What do you want me to do? And if you decide to invade Falador, for Guthix’s sake, wear something stronger than black armour. The skillers by the guards will just use you for extra target practice if you don’t.”

Daquarius thought for a moment. “There has been unrest in my order. Many of us are dedicated to the theory of strength through chaos, but among us are those who have been miseducated by the slanderous Saradominist propaganda,” he said. “Many — including some of the Kinshra — believe chaos to be synonymous with evil, but it is not so. Zamorak was a revolutionary.”

She rolled her eyes. “Get to the point.”

“I believe there is a plot to assassinate me. Find the culprit, and I will believe you truly bear Zamorak’s message.”

Teiran said nothing. Instead, she held up a single index finger in the universal gesture that indicated humourous momentary discretion. 

She turned, opened the office door, and exited, shutting it behind her. 

A minute later, a long, drawn-out scream filled the dungeon. Daquarius raised an eyebrow, and considered retrieving the crossbow again. Something told him not to. 

Another minute passed. The handle rattled and turned, and the door opened. Teiran reappeared, dragging a black knight in by the collar. 

“Found your culprit,” she said, throwing the knight in front of her. The Kinshra whimpered, curling into a fetal position on the ground. “Will you go to Daemonheim now?”

Daquarius peered at the knight. “How do I know he’s truly the traitor?”

Teiran glanced down. “Go on,” she said. “Tell the nice man what you were doing.”

The knight mumbled something. Teiran nudged him with her foot. “Louder.”

“I w-was preaching Saradmoninist d-drivel,” he sniffed. “Ma’m.”

“And?”

“T-trying to poison Lord D-Daquarius to d-death. Ma’m.”

“Good boy.” She looked back to Daquarius. “Satisfied?”

He nodded. “Very well. Daemonheim, you say? I’ll have to leave, if I wish to be punctual.” He looked down again. “And I’ll have this scum dealt with appropriately.”

At this, the knight looked up, his hands clenched in a gesture of prayer. “Please, Lord,” he said. “What is my fate?”

“It shall be decided later,” Daquarius said. “I shall have the guards see you taken to the pillory.”

“The guards?” the knights said, his voice desperate. “It will not be this woman here?”

“No.”

The knight wept, his armour shaking with his sobs. “Praise Zamorak! Oh, the lord of chaos does have mercy…”

He continued to babble as he was dragged away. Teiran and Daquarius watched him go.

“What,” the Kinshra leader said, as the knight’s echoing praises disappeared down the hallway, “was that all about?”

“Oh,” Teiran said innocently. “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

* * *

Khazard was considerably trickier to track down. After an afternoon tormenting the soldiers of Khazard fortress, she ended up finding him under the ruins of Uzer. 

His back was to her as she descended the steps, thankful for some respite from the desert heat.

He heard her approach, and turned. As he spotted her, the mahjarrat’s face drained of colour. 

“Oh, Zamorak, no,” he muttered. “Not  _ you _ .” 

“Funny you should mention him,” Teiran said, kicking aside a rock as she approached. “He’s been looking for you. You’re to report to him at Daemonheim.”

“So you’re working for the dark lord now?”

“His interests happened to align with mine. Don’t mistake it for me suddenly going to the Varrock Church of Chaos every Friday night.”

Khazard scowled. “How did you find me?”

“Oh, easy. I raided your office.” She held up a wad of notes, which fluttered in the desert breeze. “You’ve got waaaaay less security than Movario did. I didn’t know you were into the Robert the Strong comics, by the way. Drawing mustaches on him and Odysseus is a little juvenile. And why do you have only the issues with Skeletus in them? He’s a rubbish villain.”

Khazard’s face darkened. “Do not continue to insult me. You may be a messenger for Lord Zamorak, but that does not permit you to throw slander to my face!”

“I do what I like. I’d rather not be here, but Moia was too busy to hunt your sorry arse down.”

Khazard shook his head. “Damn that half-breed!”

“Half-breed?” She leaned against a dusty wall. “What’s she half-breed with?”

“Mahjarrat. And human,” he spat. “She is unworthy to carry our blood in her veins. She is an abomination. Lord Zamorak has his reasons to name her his general, but if I had it my way, I would see her exterminated.”

“You and her must get along like a house on fire,” Teiran said. “And I didn’t know you mahjarrat could reproduce. I mean, you probably can’t.” She grinned wolfishly. “At least, not any more.”

Khazard’s skull-like face paled even further. “You are as ignorant as you are slanderous,” he said, pulling his legs a little closer to each other. “The mahjarrat must reproduce, of course. That is why I am here. I am seeking information about my father.”

Teiran looked around the basement. Sand and dust coated most of the floor, which was bare, save for miscellaneous bits of broken pottery. Nothing had disturbed it — not since the cultists of Agrith-Naar. Even then, that had been years ago. 

“If I help you find what you’re looking for, will you quit arguing with me and go to Daemonheim?”

Khazard scowled. “I am loath to request help from a pitiful maggot such as you, but it seems I have little choice. Looks like you’re going to the shadow realm.”

Teiran leapt back, hitting her head on the wall. “Shadow realm? What the hell am I going there for?!” She rubbed the newly-formed bruise. “I know you’re not Sliske in disguise, you’d have better insults if you were.”

“Do not compare me to that loathsome snake!” he roared. “He’s the one blocking me from entering it, which is why I’m sending you instead. My mother, Palkeera, had mastery over it, and I suspect she may have hidden something there.”

Teiran rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. Just get on with it.”

Khazard waved his hands. The colour drained from the world again, and the mahjarrat disappeared. The smell of sand and dust vanished, replaced with an uncomfortable nothing.

Teiran scanned the basement. The broken pottery and miscellaneous statues remained as they had lain in the material world. Not even the sand had shifted from its place.

The body, however, was a new development.

Teiran crouched beside it. The blood on the mahjarrat’s hands was still fresh, and clasped to a wound in its side. It didn’t smell like blood, however; instead, it exuded the odour of sulfur. 

The mahjarrat was cradling something to its chest. Gingerly, Teiran took the small book, still soaked with red liquid. 

She opened it, and read the only discernible page within it. As she did so, her expression softened. When she finished, she closed the book and looked up. 

“Take me back, Khazard. I think I’ve found what you were looking for.”

The world shifted, and the light and heat that filtered through to the basement hit her like a heavy blanket. Khazard hadn’t moved from his place, still scowling. 

She held out the journal. “There was a body there,” she said. “This is what I found on it.”

Khazard took it, and flipped it open. As he read it, he turned away, and she couldn’t see his expression. 

Teiran said nothing. The smell of sulfur still lingered, and she absent-mindedly flaked away the blood that had dried on her fingertips. 

Khazard closed the book, his back still to her. 

“Sh-she died protecting Thammaron,” he said, his usually-petulant voice a stutter. “A worthy death, but... it was because of me. She was weak.”

Teiran said nothing. Khazard heaved a sigh that ended in a shudder.

She turned to the stairs. “Go to Daemonheim when you’re ready,” she said. “I’ll leave you be.”

Khazard didn’t reply. When she was halfway up the stairs, he spoke. 

“Human,” he said. “You will not mention this to anyone. Will you?”

She paused. “I won’t.”

“For if you do, I will send an army after you. All of my forces, at once.”

She smirked, and halfway turned to the mahjarrat. “Threaten away. I’ve been trying for the strength skillcape, so it would just be extra practice for me.” She turned back. “But I wasn’t planning to.”

Khazard said nothing. She continued up the stairs, up to the heat and light of the desert. 

And she tried not to think of choc-ice.

* * *

The sanctum was considerably fuller when she returned; as she glanced around at the milling figures, it occurred to her that she may have walked into a viper’s nest.

This was confirmed by an angry mahjarrat marching up to her, a look of burning hatred in his eyes. 

“You! Human!” he said, his face twisted in rage. “How dare you show your pathetic face to me!”

“Oh. Zemouregal,” she said dully. “Are you still mad about the thing with Arrav? You know, I was doing you a favour there. The RuneScape labour board could have been all over you if I hadn’t given him his freedom. Whatever you’ve been paying him, you probably haven’t adjusted for Fifth Age inflation.”

Zemouregal was practically frothing at the mouth. “Hold your tongue, you lesser lifeform!” He spat. “Your worthless insults mean nothing to me!”

“Mmm, it sure sounds like it,” she said, distractedly. She peered over his shoulder. “Hazeel? Didn’t I kill you at one point?”

The horned mahjarrat sneered at her. “Presumptuous, thinking you could truly eliminate me,” he said. “My lord Zamorak revived me upon his return, seeing that I was fit to serve him.”

Teiran rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She glanced at Nomad, who was leaning against a wall, quietly watching her. “I’m pretty sure I killed you, too. But death is rather cheap nowadays, it seems.”

The warrior-mage said nothing. Teiran turned to the ghostly figure that had materialized next to her. 

“Hallo, Viggora,” she said. “You’re supposed to be dead, too. Though it seems like you’ve stayed that way.”

“Thy chatterous prattle hath not ceased, wench,” he said. “But hast thou pitiful being turned thy countenance to the dark lord?”

“No more than you’ve spent any time looking at a modern-day dictionary,” she said. 

Vigorra looked like he was about to snap in with a retort when Zamorak interrupted them.

“Disciples of chaos!” he shouted. “I’ve gathered you here today for one reason, and one reason alone!”

Teiran half-listened to the speech. Her mind was on far more important things.

_ I wonder what Marianne’s making for dinner. Stew again? She is getting pretty good with chili potatoes. Perhaps I’ll teach her gnome cooking next. Or maybe gumbo…. _

“Mortal,” Zamorak said. She looked up. 

“What?”

“Is your loyalty to me assured in this operation?”

She shrugged. “I’ll do my job. You stick to your end of it.”

She felt the stares of the other heist members upon her. She didn’t mind them.

Zamorak turned to the ghost in the crowd. “Viggora. What have you found of the lair?”

“It liest in Morytania,” the phantom said. “By yon Barrows crypts. He hath hidden thy stone deep within, concealed by ye shadow realm. The part that which comes first, from what I hath deduced, must be traversed alone. It is a cave system that tricketh with the mind.”

“Very well,” Zamorak said. “Make your way there. Once you have located the stone, summon me, and we may retrieve what is rightfully ours.”

The assorted heist members let out a roar, and kneeled. Teiran stayed where she was, cleaning her fingernails.

Then, one by one, they teleported out. Teiran was readying herself to go when Moia approached her. 

“You,” the half-mahjarrat said. “I see your insolence. Do not think that you can hide your disloyalty.”

“I’m not making any attempts,” Teiran said. “Zamorak knows what he signed up for when he asked me to join on this. And I doubt that he did just because I happened to call Saradomin a blue-faced booby.”

Moia narrowed her eyes. “If you betray him, human, then I will see to it that you are destroyed, immortality or no.”

“Good luck trying. Because I haven’t had any.” She pulled out a piece of chalk. “See in Morytania. Try not to upset the ghasts.”

Moia’s scowl remained even as the lodestone teleport fired up around her. 

As Teiran arrived in Canifis and made her way to the swamps, greeting Mazchna with a cursory wave, she wondered how much longer it would take before a fight broke out. 


	47. The Chosen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Blood, gore

The entrance to Sliske’s lair was almost obnoxiously easy to find. The glowing teal mask on the stone seemed to almost mock her, and Teiran couldn’t help but kick a little mud at it, giving one of the eyes a squint. 

The others had already entered, judging by the number of footprints around the ladder. She nonetheless scanned the area one last time before descending, and hoped that she wasn’t walking into an ambush. 

The caves she dropped into below reminded her far too much of the Barrows crypts, though they seemed to be devoid of rats or worms or the tortured screams of cursed Saradominist warriors. 

However, she would have rather fought the Barrows Brothers than have to deal with the glowing text on the slab in front of her. 

“Oh, bloody _ riddles _ ,” she groaned. “How is this even a poem? It doesn’t even rhyme.”

She read through the script, trying to make sense of it. “Am I supposed to throw an elemental orb spell at it or something?” she muttered. “I should’ve brought more runes.”

She looked up. The caves stretched before her, branching off in different directions. Each path was lined with a multitude of cave openings, marked with smears of paint over them.

“Oh, well. Might as well be methodical.”

She started heading towards one of the paths. Five steps in, however, and she felt something woosh behind her. 

She turned, grabbing her whip from her belt. Nothing was there, save for a small cloud of dust that had blossomed from the front end of the slab. Nevertheless, she kept her weapon out and approached the stone with cautious steps, watching for any sign of movement. 

She saw nothing, even as she peeked around the edge of the slab. As she went to check back on the caves, something on the ground caught her eye. 

There were letters scratched out in the dirt in front of the stone. She craned her neck, half-reading them upside down. 

_ BLUE DOOR, _ it read. It seemed hastily scrawled.

And somehow familiar. She’d seen that handwriting before. But where, and when? It was probably a while ago. She couldn’t put her finger on it. And what did it mean by blue door? None of the caves’ entrances had any doors. 

They did, however, have the paint smears. And one of them, off in the path in front of her, happened to look blue.

As she realized this, she immediately turned and took the door marked green. 

_ It’s probably another one of Sliske’s tricks, _ she thought, as she stumbled through the dark, dusty passage.  _ Though that is a little odd of him. He’s not the kind to hand out answers to riddles like that. And he’s probably have a stupid mask say it, not scratch it out in the dirt. _

She saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and sprinted for it. She emerged from the cave, eagerly looking around to see…

The exact same room from before. She turned around. Despite being an expressionless streak of paint, the green stripe almost seemed to be leering at her. 

_ Bugger! _ She tried the next cave entrance — marked by white — and achieved a similar outcome. Yellow, orange and purple were also duds. 

“Oh, come on!” she yelled, as she reentered the cavern by way of the black-marked cave. “I can’t just be walking around in circles!”

She eyed the blue-marked cave opening. It was the only one she hadn’t tried. 

“Oh, fine,” she growled, and she trudged through it. If there was a terrifying monster in there, it was probably no worse than the temper she was currently in. 

She walked through the twisting, dark path. She’d tried a fire spell before, but it had only lit up a tiny area around her, almost as if the shadows themselves were trying to encroach on the space. Even the light at the end of this tunnel didn’t really give her much hope, as she stepped forward into the next space, expecting to see the same stupid…

Tablet. This time it was to the left of her, in a totally different cavern than before.

She looked behind her. The dark tunnel offered no answers. 

She looked down. The ground did. 

_ FIND THE V _

It was similarly scratched out hastily in the dirt. She scanned the area around it for any tell-tale bootprints, but found none. 

There were only a few doors in the cavern; she chose one at random, and, sure enough, there was a stone slab with a V carved into it resting at its threshold. 

She paused for only a moment before entering. She emerged into a different space than before, with another answer scrawled into the dirt.

This continued for the next five caverns, with the answers written out on the ground before each tablet. Each time she meticulously inspected the area for any sign of what had left it; and each time, she had found nothing. 

The last cavern was another colour puzzle, and the answer below the stone ( _ GREY _ ) carried something additional. 

_ GOOD LUCK _

Teiran looked up. She was pretty sure it wasn’t Sliske leaving these behind. But she wasn’t sure who was. 

Still, it didn’t hurt to be polite.

“Thanks,” she said. “Whoever you are.”

She walked over to the grey door. As she exited, a small gust of wind, seemingly from nowhere, disturbed the dust and scrubbed the message away.

* * *

Moia, along with a few others, was waiting for her on the other side. 

“Last to come, I see,” she said. Teiran scanned around. 

“Not quite. Where’s Khazard?”

A muffled cursing came from behind her, as a dirt-covered mahjarrat stumbled into view. 

“Curse Sliske and his mind games!” Khazqrd screeched, brushing himself off. “That worm clearly used all his power in attempting to entrap me in those blasted tunnels!”

“Not a riddles kind of fellow, I take?” Teiran said bemusedly. Khazard shot her a furious look. 

“Hold your tongue, you bipedal simian,” he spat. “Sliske knows which of us are more vital than others. No doubt he is trying to weaken our foundations by taking out the most valuable members.”

At this point, Moia stepped forward. “Cease your squabbles,” she said. “We have a task to complete — one set by Zamorak.”

She gestured to the large door set in the cave wall. “The caverns beyond that are being patrolled by wights, if Viggora’s intel is correct. We’ll need someone with stealth in order to assassinate the guards on patrol and disable the alarms.”

Moia’s gaze settled on Teiran. “You.”

Zemouregal let out an angry grunt. “Why her? I could take care of any pathetic guard in our way far more easily than any human could. And how do we know she won’t simply betray us while unseen?

“You lack subtlety,” Moia said. “If we are detected, then Sliske could very well move the Stone away before we even set eyes on it. And I will not be sending her alone. Jerrod?”

She gestured to the scruffy-looking man at the back of the group, who, so far had remained quiet. Teiran had ignored him up until this point, but only now was noticing the wolfish grin, the red gleam in his eyes and the faint odour of wet dog. 

“Sending me with a werewolf, eh?” she said. “Fine enough. But if he gets any ideas of having a midday snack, for the record, I don’t need a wolfsbane dagger to do him in.”

The werewolf snarled. “If I were so inclined, I wouldn’t even give you time to draw any weapon.”

He shuddered, and, with the sound of a sack of raw beef being ripped in half, transformed. The scruffy man that once stood before her was replaced by a towering, humanoid wolf. He snarled, baring his yellow fangs as he locked eyes with her.

“Care to insult me again, girl?” Jerrod growled. “Or perhaps your confidence leaves you, now that you know how large these teeth that would rend you are?”

Teiran said nothing. Instead, she reached into her bag and took out a small, rectangular object, wrapped in paper and twine. 

The werewolf backed away slowly, whimpering. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Only if you try anything on me.” She put the soap away. “Can we get on with it?”

Moia gave her a rather hard look, but didn’t say anything. Teiran grabbed the door handle. 

“Let’s just get this over with.”

* * *

The next room was a similarly labyrinthine layout. The first thing she noticed was the steel gates directly in front of them, which Teiran deduced concealed a shortcut. The passage continued to the right, and she heard faint footsteps from ahead. 

She peeked around the corner, eyeing the wight patrolling the passage. Beyond it, several masks carved into the wall scanned the area with a glowing red light. She watched the flashes carefully, and noted when they blinked out. 

“I’ll take out this bloke and see what’s around the corner,” she said. “There’s bound to be a lever or something.”

The werewolf nodded, keeping his distance while warily eyeing her bag. 

Teiran eyed the wight again, watching its pattern of patrol.  _ Maybe if I distract it…. _

She pushed that idea out of her head.  _ We want to avoid detection. Singing the Weasel Song probably isn’t a good idea. And I don’t exactly have the most reliable partner to help me… _

The wight turned away from her. She rolled towards it, lashing her whip towards its ankles. It fell, letting out a raspy yelp before she snapped its neck. 

The undead lay still. To her left, the mask in the wall scanned its beam down the passage. Around the corner, just out of reach of its light, she spied a lever.

Teiran got up as quietly as she could, watching the light.  _ One... two… three…  _

She dove, rolling again and pushing herself against the wall. The light flickered to life again, the grim mask’s eyeholes seeming to look straight at her… But the beam stopped short of her feet. 

Teiran breathed a sigh of relief, and pulled the lever above her. She heard the gate behind her creak, along with the patter of hasty footsteps. There was a meaty tearing noise, and the thump of a body hitting the floor. 

She reached into her bag and double-checked that the soap was there. Then, watching for the light’s pattern again, she ducked away towards the entrance.

Jerrod was waiting for her on the other side of the gates. A slain wight lay at his feet.

“Let’s keep moving,” the werewolf growled. 

The next room was a little larger. She checked around the corner again; this time, instead of a wight stalking the passage, there was a cloud of indescribable darkness that oozed steadily through the corridor.

“Nice to see a bit of variety,” she muttered. She watched the cloud’s movements, and, when it began to ooze down the passage again, she followed, staying just a step behind it as it proceeded. As soon as it passed by an opening in the wall, she rolled away, nearly barreling into the wight that was patrolling there. “Whoops!” 

The wight’s lifeless eyes widened, right up until the moment the whip wrapped around its neck. She flicked her wrist, and the undead slumped to the floor. 

Teiran got up, brushing herself off. “Complete cannon fodder,” she said, shaking her head. She looked down at the slumped body. “Poor bastard. I wonder who you were before Sliske got his hands on you?”

The dead wight didn’t reply, which she was glad for. Instead, she grabbed the lever on the wall, hearing the gates rise on the other side of the cavern.

Jerrod growled, and another undead fell.

This continued for a while. She’d sneak by the guards, pull a lever, and wonder how long this godsdamn cave system really was. Trollheim it wasn’t; though she reserved a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that she was able to stab the patrols. 

Well, most of the time. At one point she’d ducked around the corner, weapon ready to snare another undead mid-step. Instead, she was greeted by a corpse. A distinctly non-ambulataory one. While its legs were quite fine, Teiran was pretty sure its brains shouldn’t be splattered all over the wall like that.

She knelt down to inspect the former wight. Whatever had killed it had done so instantly — and, by the looks of it, with a very heavy blunt weapon. 

“Hmmm.” Whoever had done it must have known she would be coming this way. And they had done it somewhat in advance. The cavern echoed with the footsteps of the guards; anything this messy, she surely would have heard back at the entrance. 

The lever was conveniently close, and lightly coated with undead brains. She hesitated a moment before she pulled it. It clunked down, like the others beforehand, and was followed by the groan of the gates opening. 

She regarded the body once more before leaving the passageway, trailing behind another dark cloud and trying to ignore the smell of old blood.

* * *

The rest of the sneaking mission went without a hitch. As she pulled the final level, she pulled out the wooden box and gave it a shake. 

“Moia?” she said into it. The box crackled.

“Have you managed to clear the path?” the box crackled in Moia’s voice.

“Yeah. There’s a straight shot through a bunch of gates on the right. Try not to make a racket.”

The box crackled again, and was silent. Teiran leaned against the wall and pulled down the brim of her hat, glad for a moment’s rest in the chaos. 

Jerrod shuddered, and reverted back to human form. “Blugh,” he retched, spitting a god of red-tinged blood on the floor. “Undead blood. Disgusting.”

“I wouldn’t know it,” she said. 

“Hrrm. You smell of it.”

“Would be a little surprising if I didn’t,” she said, not looking up. “You think I’d wait around with a blowpipe and poison the guards to death?”

The werewolf sniffed. “You smell too heavily of it. You’ve been near viscera.”

“What can I say? I’m a messy assassin.” She paused. “I mean, I can always wash it off if you don’t like it…”

She reached into her bag. The werewolf growled. 

“One day I’ll find you,” he said. “And there will be no silver, or soap. There will only be moonlight, and blood. Yours. Spilled on the ground, and glistening on my claws.”

“Be sure to book an appointment,” she replied. “I’ll see if I can squeeze you in between the Dagannoth Queen, The Pescallion, and General Graardor, who’s sent me no less than sixteen death threats in the past week for using his god’s body as a garden display. I think I’m free on Fentuary 32nd.”

Jerrod growled. “You’ll pay for your insolence….!”

“Cheque’s in the mail,” she said. “Ah, the rest of the crew are here.”

Moia, who was heading the entourage, gave them a cursory nod. “Good work. Viggora says the vault entrance should be in the chamber.”

She turned to the rest of them. “Be on your guard. Sliske will have, no doubt, prepared some trap or mechanism around the entrance. If we fail now, we will have lost our chance.”

Zemouregal gave a curt nod, as did Enakhra, Daquarius and Hazeel. Nomad remained silent. Jerrod let out a snort, and Khazard slammed his fist into his palm. 

Teiran resisted the urge to roll her eyes.  _ How did I end up in Morytania with a bunch of Zamorakian goons?  _ she thought.  _ How many of these people have tried to kill me at some point? Why did I ever agree to this? _

She sighed, internally. When this is all said and done, she decided she was going out of her way to restock the Zamorakian vintage, divine retribution be damned. 

Moia turned to the gate before them. “Be ready,” she said. “The final leg of our journey has begun.”

She pushed open the door. As she did so, Teiran felt her hand begin to twinge. 


	48. In Between

Teiran scowled as soon as she spotted the masks carved into the door in front of them. The grinning one winked at her, while the frowning one pouted further.

“Oh, no,” she groaned. “Not these two.”

“Oh yes! It’s us!” The one on the left grinned winder. “Because you just couldn’t get enough last time!”

Moia gave her a suspicious glance. “You know them?”

“Unwillingly,” Teiran growled. “They’re not connected to Sliske directly, I think. They just have his personality.”

Hazeel narrowed his eyes. “How do we know they aren’t a preliminary alarm?”

“No alarms!” The mask on the left said. “Just games.”

The sad mask sighed. “They’ll probably fail.”

“And that’s the fun of it!” The right mask turned to the group. “So, how about it? Who’s in for a little merriment?”

The group collectively blinked. Nomad slowly raised his staff, taking aim. 

“Now, now,” the mask chided. “No need for violence.”

“They’re probably going to blow us up anyways,” the grim mask sniffed.

Moia held up her arm. “Don’t,” she said. “If we attack the door directly, then it may trigger an alert. Daquarius. What can you make of these runes?”

The black knight leader stepped forward, inspecting the door. “It’s a series of locks,” he said, tracing his hand along the stone. “All arcane. It needs to be powered by something to open.”

“Good job!” the grinning mask crowed. “Aren’t you a smart cookie?”

Daquarius scowled, but said nothing. The mask continued.

“You know what would be helpful? How about having your nice little doggie sniff out the guards? I’m sure they’d have something interesting in their memories. And wouldn’t you be able to find that, daughter of Lucien?”

Jerrod began to growl at the mask, his hair raised, but Teiran wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she looked to Moia, whose face was expressionless.

“The mask is correct,” Moia said, her voice cold. “Unfortunately. Jerrod, cease your yapping. Go out and find any guards who interacted with this door. Bring them here. Alive.”

The werewolf growled again, casting a furious glance at the mask before leaving, sniffing the air as he walked along. 

The rest of the group scattered. Hazeel and Daquarius continued to inspect the door. Zemouregal seemed to be on edge, and he warily watched the cavern’s entrance. Enakhra mirrored his unease, staying close. Nomad merely leaned against the wall, staring at the ground. Viggora remained shadowy, his form faded in the much-brighter cavern. 

Khazard, surprisingly, had pulled out a comic book. It had a skeleton on the cover. He had a lump of charcoal in hand, and was scribbling away furiously.

Teiran ignored the others, and turned her focus to Moia, who was standing, still as a statue, and watching the door. 

“So,” Teiran said. “Daughter of Lucien, eh?”

“Do not say that name to my face,” Moia said, her voice sharp. “He is nothing more than a delusional weakling. He means nothing to me.”

“Hmmm.” Teiran leaned against the wall, staring up at the unseeable ceiling. “I don’t expect he’d be winning Dad of the Year awards any time soon.”

“No,” Moia said bitterly. “He would not.”

Teiran didn’t say anything. 

Moia crossed her arms. “If you let the blood that flows in my veins be an excuse for your betrayal, then I personally see to it that you —”

“Why would I?” She turned to the half-mahjarrat. “You’re not Lucien. I have no reason to hate you for that.” She paused. “Now I’ve got plenty of reasons otherwise. But that’s for things you did.”

“You do not trust me. Wise.”

“I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

“It is natural, for a Zamorakian, not to trust most of their colleagues,” Moia said, with a hint of pride. “We are used to deceit. That is a given in the grand game for power.”

“Sounds tiring.”

“No. It is freeing. Far too many people delude themselves into undue trust. It is a fantasy to think that granting it ungiven will not have consequences.”

“I’m here, though.”

Moia turned away from her. “That is because my Lord Zamorak has chosen to. He has earned my loyalty, as I have for him. I may not agree with his decision, but I choose to have faith in it, no matter how reluctant that is.”

“That’s… foundational. I suppose.”

“Hm.” The half-mahjarrat watched on boredly as Daquarius argued with Hazeel over some runic inscription. 

“I assume,” Teiran said, “that you know why I hate Lucien.”

“I am well aware.”

“You had nothing to do with it, right?”

“No. And I would be disgusted with myself if I was,” Moia said. “The Stone belongs to Zamorak. Not a pathetic mahjarrat with delusions of godhood.”

_ Same difference, _ Teiran thought. “The damn talking wall ornaments don’t seem to know that. They were probably trying to stir up a fight.”

“Your hate still runs deep, after all this time?”

“Oh, yes,” Teiran said darkly. “I hate him for what he did. Hell, I’ll hate him for the fact that he died without letting me do the deed. I’ll hate him forever. Nothing will change that.”

“You saw him die?” Morbid curiosity had crept into Moia’s voice. “How was it?” 

“Wouldn’t the other mahjarrat tell you?”

“They… do not trust me. Beyond the normal parameters. My mixed blood unnerves them.”

“To be fair, I think Zemouregal was too busy turning tail to get a good look.” Moia actually snorted at this, though her face betrayed no mirth. 

“But yeah,” Teiran continued. “I saw him die. The dragonkin picked him up and dropped him on the ground like a sack of rotten potatoes. And then they stabbed him with the Staff of Armadyl.” She paused. “It was really quite pathetic, when you look at it.”

At this, Moia grinned. “A wretched death for a wretched creature. Oh, how I wish I could have beheld it.”

“It sounds more satisfying than it really was,” Teiran said darkly. “I never knew what happened to the body.”

“It was probably devoured by a roc. The bones, I am sure, are being used to furnish some troll’s wall, if that hope would not be too much.”

“Nah. Burntmeat’s probably using them as cooking implements.”

Jerrod, at this point in time, returned, dragging a struggling wight behind him. He held it up in front of the half-mahjarrat.

“Good,” Moia said. “Let’s see what this one knows.”

She concentrated, holding her hands up to the wight’s head. It stopped struggling, and seemed to slip into a trance.

Moia’s face twisted as her hands and eyes glowed with energy. She took in a breath. 

“The doors,” she said, her voice tense with concentration. “They’re powered…. By light and shadow orbs. They are in the shadow realm... they must be applied in balance if the alarm is not to be triggered.”

She released the wight, which slumped to the ground and lay still. Moia shook her head, and turned to the others.

“Hazeel. Khazard. Find the orbs in the shadow realm. Enakhra and Nomad, keep the orbs’ power balanced on the door. Jerrod, keep bringing guards in. Zemouregal, watch the doors — no doubt we’ll see a horde of undead come our way soon if we don’t make haste. Daquarius, stand by. I’ll need you to decrypt the runic locks.”

Teiran leaned back and watched as the team took to their tasks, like a surprisingly well-oiled machine. It could have been her lack of participation. Or it could be the drive towards the thing that lay behind the vault. Could they feel it, too, like she could? A distant thrumming like a tripwire that rang in her ears and sent her veins abuzz? 

They’d gotten this far. Even the zombies now pouring through the side doorways didn’t seem to faze Zemouregal, who summoned portals that captured them with the same ease a druid could summon a spirit wolf. Daquarius, with instructions from Moia, was already working on the magic locks, while Nomad and Enakhra were fiercely concentrated on the door, overseen by Hazeel and Khazard.

They did work well together. Zamorak could be given credit for that. But it would make slipping the stone away from under his nose all the harder. 

A sudden grinding creak echoed throughout the chamber. The undead stopped coming, and Nomad and Enakhra stopped channeling the orbs. 

“It’s open,” Moia said, letting go of the last wight’s body. “The Stone of Jas is in our grasp.”

Zemouregal grinned. “Let’s get it, then!” He took a step forward, but Moia stopped him.

“No. She goes first.” She pointed towards Teiran. 

“Why me?” she asked, as Zemouregal’s face twisted in fury. 

“You can truly sense if the Stone is beyond,” Moia said. “And if there are any outright traps laid there for us, then you are the most disposable. You can come back from death if it kills you.”

Teiran scowled. “Just because dying won’t kill me doesn’t mean that I like it!”

Moia’s expression didn’t change. Teiran rolled her eyes. “Fine. But I’m charging you my item return fee.”

As she stepped towards the vault, the feeling that she had since she’d set foot in the chamber only increased. Her heart beat faster and her hand stung more; even through the thick chamber doors, she could see a faint, circular glow that made her eyes water.

_ It gets worse every time, _ she thought, suppressing a wince.  _ I get closer to it, I get more sensitive. I can’t touch it again this time… _

_ But is there any other way to keep it out of Sliske and Zamorak’s hands? _

She touched the door. The masks above watched her, one leering, and the other twisted in despair. She pushed it open, and it swung forward on well-oiled hinges. 

The first thing she noticed as she stepped through it, the others close behind her, was its emptiness. The only furnishing was a pedestal in the middle, ringed by four pillars, but otherwise containing nothing. Teiran scanned the room, her eyes failing to catch an all-powerful wossname, about the size of a kitchen larder. 

“Where is it?” she asked confusedly. “I can feel it… but it’s not here.”

“The shadow realm, no doubt,” Moia said. “A hallmark of Sliske’s that he would be loath to exclude.”

“Indeed, it is!” A mocking voice rang throughout the chamber. “You know, you took your sweet time getting here. And you used such a linear path! Where are the ceiling wires? The code names? The explosive chewing gum? You people have no sense of style.”

Moia raised her hand, a spell glowing within. “Sliske.”

“Sliske indeed!” the mahjarrat said, materializing on the steps to the pavilion ahead of them. “You know, it’s rather nice to have visitors come around. I’d offer you cake, but you know I’m not very good at that sort of thing.”

Moia growled, stepping forward. “You may have seen us coming, but that won’t stop us. This ends now. The Stone of Jas belongs to Zamorak!”

Sliske rolled his eyes. “Ugh, ownership. Such a Fifth Age concept. Can’t we just share everything? Kumbaya, I am you and you are me and we are all in a yellow submarine and such?”

At that point, Zemouregal snapped. “Enough with your prattling, minstrel!” he barked. “The useless little half-breed may not be able to face you, but I will!”

“Tut tut, Zemouregal,” Sliske chided. “Has living in a fortress with nothing but gargoyles driven you batty? You don’t even have Arrav with you for company! You’ve been letting yourself go. I can see that you’ve put on a few pounds.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the Stone’s presence that bolstered her anger, or simply Sliske’s insults. But something within her set off.

“Enough!” Teiran shouted. Dust rained down from the ceiling, fogging the chamber below. “I’ve had it up to  _ here  _ with your games, and your stupid puzzles and your shitty godsdamn banter. We’re taking the Stone back, and if I have to reduce you to a red smear on the ground in the process, so bloody well be it!”

Sliske shook his head. “You, for one, need to take some anger management classes. No matter, though! I think we’ll see this little arc quite tidily resolved.”

He snapped his fingers. Eight shadowy figures materialized in front of the group, slowly forming into more solid shapes. As they took on detail, Teiran saw they were mirror images of who they stood in front of. Hazeel was confronted by a darker Hazeel, as were Jerrod, Moia, Daquarius and the others, who immediately braced themselves.

Teiran was about to sarcastically ask where hers was when she belt a bony elbow jab into her side.

“This is our chance,” Khazard hissed. “I’m sending you to the shadow realm. Get the Stone while you can. Understand, human?”

What normally would have invoked a retort on her end was quashed by the urgency in his voice; so she simply nodded. “Fire away.”

The world shimmered, draining of colour and warmth until it was a muted grey. She could see the stone now, crackling with energy on the pavilion in front of her. 

She could feel the heat emanating from it even from where she stood. Her hand burned, stronger than ever before, and it felt like she was holding it directly over a flame. 

She stepped forward. As she did, Sliske’s laugh rang throughout the chamber.

“You thought I wouldn’t account for you slipping into this dimension?” he cackled. “Even when I told you I knew about your little plan, you came anyways. Hilarious! In any case, there’s someone I’d like you to meet while you’re here. I’m sure you’re already acquainted.”

A dark mass formed in front of her, bubbling up from the ground like swamp tar. It swirled, arranging itself into a shadowy figure that mirrored her. In both hands it carried a scythe — one that towered above it and somehow seemed more malevolent than Death’s.

It had a nice hat. 

Teiran looked at herself — or at least, a darker version of herself wearing strange, bony armour and a heavy-looking cape. It started at her, its eyes filled with glowing white nothingness, still as a statue. 

She grabbed her weapons, unhitching her whip and superior dragon longsword. 

Learning to dual-wield had resulted in many an emergency wall-patching, armour-repairing, and a particularly awkward visit to Death’s office after she severed one of her femoral arteries, but she more or less had it down. And, funnily enough, she liked it more than hiding behind a shield. Always on the attack. All or nothing. 

The figure watched her, and stepped forward. She didn’t even wait for it to swing.

Teiran leapt towards the shadow, aiming her whip towards the figure’s legs and her sword at its throat. It side-stepped her neatly, and she caught her balance as she stumbled past it. 

It said nothing as it slashed the scythe towards her, and she hastily danced out of the way. It caught her on the upswing, the blade colliding with her armor and sending sparks flying off from the ancient metal. 

“ _ Ooof!” _ she wheezed, as the strike knocked the air out of her lungs. She managed to roll under the rest of the swing, jumping back as she got to her feet and the shadow swung again. 

_ It’s me, basically, _ she thought, as the figure charged towards her.  _ So it’s going to go for the meathead offensive. Find the weak spots. You’d know them. _

She sidestepped the shadow again as it made another attack; however, it feinted, catching her under the legs with the staff-end of its weapon and sending her to the ground.

_ Damnit! _ She scrambled to her feet once more, ducking under another swing. Seeing an opportunity, she lashed her whip at the shadow’s feet. The weapon wrapped around its ankles, and she yanked her arm back. 

The figure fell mid-swing, and Teiran rolled out of the way just as the scythe’s blade collided with the floor, slicing into the marble as though it were a bar of soap. 

Teiran pulled her whip free, preparing another attack as the shadow pulled itself up by the still-embedded scythe. With a creak of stone it wrenched it loose, its glowing white gaze fixed on her. 

She didn’t even give it time to gloat, aiming another attack at its feet. It dodged right, only to be met by the dragon sword. 

This strike met a chink in its armour, and where the sword hit, it left a gash, bleeding shadow that puddling on the ground like dark smoke. The dark reflection’s face twisted into a grimace as it clutched its wound, wisps of shadow escaping from between its fingers. 

It swung the scythe, a little clumsier this time, and Teiran was easily able to avoid it. She dodged, expecting an upwing, only to be caught off-balance as the shadow continued to twist around, coming full circle. The blade rushed towards her like a high-speed windmill sail. 

Teiran ducked — not forward, but backward, wincing as her platebody cut into the small of her back. It was a bruising she preferred, however, over the blade that flew over her head, just barely missing the brim of her hat. 

_ Thank gods, _ she thought, as she snapped back upwards and leapt back,  _ for all that time I spent in the Brimhaven Agility Arena. _

The shadow seemed to be regrouping. The wound in its arm had stopped bleeding (if she could even call it that) and it now held the scythe in both hands. It got into a balanced fighting stance, watching her and waiting to make a move.

_ Think, Teiran, think! _ Her mind raced.  _ This thing is you! It knows your moves. And you know its moves. What’s the least likely thing you’d do right now? _

She looked at the figure again. Was that a calculating look in its eye? Or was it just the weird shadow magic?

If that thing really was a reflection of her, then it would be going through a similar thought process. If that were the case, then she was stuck between a rock and another rock, of equal size and stature. An immovable object meeting an irresistible force. 

Unless, of course, one was just a little harder than the other. Or a little more immovable, or a little more irresistible…

She threw down her weapons. The shadow followed, tossing aside the scythe with a metallic clatter on the floor.

Teiran lowered her head. The shadow did as well. 

With a roar, the two figures charged. Teiran knew it would probably be more strategic to duck away at the last minute, or to stab it with a hidden knife or something. But if this thing was anything like her, then it was all-in. No going back. 

Her head, however, was slightly lower. 

They collided. 

Her skull met the shadow’s torso with a sickening crack. It scabbled against her, attempting to find purchase on her Torva armour in its panic; instead, she grabbed it by the forearms, using her momentum to push it back further. It stumbled over the steps of the pavilion behind it, falling backwards onto the cold marble.

Teiran pulled back as it fumbled against the slippery stone, and she met it with a quick punch to the face. It swayed, and she planted a heavy dragon boot against its chest. 

“You underestimated me, Sliske,” she said, pulling a crossbow out of her bag and aiming for the figure’s face. “You think you could scare me with this? I’ve fought Me before. In crappier armour, and using magic, which I’m half as good at as melee. It was a party trick, at the very best.”

She expected Sliske to make some pouting remark or, at the very least, say nothing at all. What she didn’t expect was the laugh that rang throughout the chamber, which raised the hairs on the back of her neck. 

“Party trick, hmmm? I suppose this entertained you, then!” his voice giggled. “I’m sure you’ll love this next one, then!”

The shadow in front of her began to shift, its form twisting away like ink spilled in a puddle. 

She fired the crossbow at it. The bolt went straight through the melting figure, embedding in the cold marble below it.

The shape warped again, becoming more humanoid. The armour and cape had vanished, replaced by dark robes. Another weapon had materialized with it, this time in the form of an abyssal whip, shadowy and twisted against the white stone. Its face came last, arranging itself into that of a man’s, with dark hair and a beard.

Teiran’s stomach turned. “No.”

Her throat tightened, and a sudden wave of dizzy nausea came over her as bile rose to her mouth. The crossbow, now rattling with the shaking of her hands, clattered to the floor.

The shadowy clone of Cyrisus stood up, pushing her foot aside as though it were nothing. His eyes were filled with a white glow; his face, expressionless, looked like that of a corpse.

“You know,” Sliske’s voice said, “I’m really glad that you went on that little fetch-quest for old bunny-ears all that time ago. I didn’t expect Ahrim’s pyjamas could set one person off so much! So I figured — why not go for the whole hog? It’s been a while since you’ve seen him, I’m sure. That statue in Falador was a wonderful reference.”


	49. Fear and Loathing

Teiran stepped back from the shadow, desperately willing her body to stop shaking, while simultaneously trying to form a coherent thought and also not throw up. 

_It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not. Fucking. Him!_ half of her mind screamed. The other half simply screamed. Words died in her throat, replaced by the taste of bile. 

The dark reflection of Cyrisus followed, walking slow steps towards her. Her heart hammered in her chest, her body half-paralyzed with fear as she managed to back away, slowly, painfully.

 _C’mon! C’mon! This is one of Sliske’s tricks!_ _Fight! Run! Do something! If you don’t, Sliske will still have the Stone! Or Zamorak will get his hands on it! Come on, fight!_

It looked too much like him, down to the way he parted his hair to the way he wielded the whip, his thumb curled over the edge. Horrifyingly, some part of her wanted to run to him, arms outstretched; but some part of her brain that still maintained rational control of her body resisted.

Her foot hit something, and she stumbled, falling backwards onto the ground. The figure didn’t slow.

 _There!_ her thoughts shouted. _You tripped on your whip! Grab it!_

She managed to wrap her fingers around the handle, pulling it out from underneath her. She held it in front of her, her hands still shaking. 

_It’s close enough! Go on! Strike!_

He was close enough now to hit; if she aimed right, she could trip him up, and grab the sword and then…

_No._

Her hand shook harder, as tears blurred her eyes. She could see herself doing it; the whip wrapping around his legs, pulling him to the ground, and driving the blade through his chest…

But doing so filled her with revulsion, more sickening than anything she could imagine doing. Try as she could, she was unable to move. So she sat, frozen in place, listless with horror, as old wounds that she’d long-thought were healed freshly ripped open.

She could see it through the blur of tears. It stood in front of her, and she was thankful that she couldn’t see its face clearly. It raised an arm, glowing with sickly black energy, aimed right after her. As he did, she slowly came to a new realization.

 _He’d never do this,_ she thought, as she slowly gripped the whip tighter. _He’d never hurt you. This is wrong._

_That’s not him._

_That could never be him._

As this thought burned through her head, her body unfroze. She ducked to the side just as the shadow fired, the blast leaving a scorch mark on the stone where she’d just been. 

“You’re not him,” she said aloud, still looking down. She scanned the ground, grabbing the dragon longsword. It felt sure and heavy in her grip, which was still shaking slightly. 

She felt something in her chest — that spark. That flame. 

Anger. 

“How dare you?” she whispered, clutching her weapon even tighter. “How dare you make that… _thing_ wear his face?”

_That’s it! Get angry. Don’t get scared. Who in Gielinor gave this thing the right to scare you? Sliske is manipulating you. And that pisses. You. The. Hell. Off._

She still couldn’t look at it. Small steps. For now, she was going to focus on getting the shadow on the ground. 

Another blast sailed by her, barely missing. She should probably also focus on getting out of the line of fire.

She looked back to the pavilion, and where the crossbow still lay. She sprinted over, zig-zagging to avoid the blasts of magic, and scooped it up. She fired half-blindly at where she estimated the shadow was.

It struck… something. It sounded like ripping silk as it hit, followed by the blast of dragonfire as the enchantment in the bolt activated. 

And then a scream, inhuman and resonating. It echoed throughout the chamber, ringing in her ears long after it ended. 

Teiran looked up. 

The apparition had become… fuzzier. It leaked blackness at the edges, becoming more amorphous. Its face had warped, looking more like twisted smoke than anything familiar.

Her stomach lurched, but she didn’t look away again. 

“Don’t like fire, huh?” she fired three more shots in quick succession, the second one exploding as it struck the shadow’s middle. It howled, half-melting onto the ground. It tried to fire another spell at her, but it sputtered in what remained of its hands. 

Teiran walked towards it. It flailed where it lay, flickering madly as she approached. It wasn’t even humanoid anymore; just a blob of darkness, struggling on the floor.

She said nothing. Instead, she raised the sword, and brought it down.

The shadow stopped struggling. With a hiss, it melted into the cracked stone, leaving behind nothing.

Teiran stared at where it had been. Wordlessly, she sheathed the sword and put the crossbow away. 

Then she walked to the middle of the chamber, over the steps towards the center of the room. There, she paused, looking at the gaping chasm between the pavilion and the rest of the chamber floor.

She vomited, not even bothering to wonder where it might end up. She hoped it was on Sliske’s head. 

_Never again,_ she thought, as she wiped her mouth and gargled a Saradomin brew. She tried not to think of the glowing whites of its eyes. Or anything at all, really. 

She waited for her heartbeat to return to normal (or, at least, as normal as she figured it could get) before she turned her attention to the object on the pedestal.

Now with some of the terror washed away, she could feel the stone’s pull towards her. It wasn’t as strong as it had been back in the ice caves, or below the swamps of Lumbridge. Perhaps it was a side-effect of the god immunity. Maybe she had simply grown acclimated to it. Still, she felt a faint urge to touch it. 

_Not this time,_ she told herself, stepping closer to it. _You know how it’s going to end up._

 _You don’t know what’s on the other side,_ part of her thoughts argued. _You don’t know if Sliske’s got an army waiting for you, or if the others will turn on you. This is insurance._

 _Well, I don’t like it!_ she argued back. 

She looked at the stone. It loomed and glowed, and she felt the faint heat pouring off of it. 

_Why does everything always seem to lead back to this?_ she thought. _Lucien. The mahjarrat. Now the gods. I wish I’d never found it in that damn cave. Everything was much more manageable before then._

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the faint, circular outline that burned through the blackness.

“I’m going to regret this,” she said. She wasn’t sure if this was directed at anyone. 

She touched the stone. 

The feeling of cold fire rushed up her arm, centering on her palm and biting into it with a vicious sting. She winced, feeling her body hairs raise, while the stone glowed brighter and brighter, washing away the world around her.

* * *

_Green. That’s what was most noticeable about the landscape that stretched ahead: green. Lush grass waved in the soft breeze that rustled the evergreens, filling the clearing with the heady scent of pine and earth. It smelled of late springtime, when the sun had not yet beaten everything into submission with its harshness, and when everything was still young and tender._

_Even the stone embedded into the ground could not break the serenity, though the vegetation around it had dried out and died. It glowed, tinged with a crimson that matched the horned figure next to it. His hand touched the stone, perhaps more for support than anything._

_The other gods faced him. Armadyl, now much younger, had an air of confidence about him, his crest feathers bristling with anticipation. Saradomin looked grimly smug, his brow furrowed in fireceness and his lips almost pulled into a smirk. Bandos was shaking, either with excitement or silent laughter, as he gleefully took in the scene in front of him._

_Saradomin stepped forward, his chin high. “You are defeated, Zamorak,” he said, with triumph in his voice. “Give up the stone.”_

_Zamorak hissed as he sat up, rusty-red blood frothing from his lips as he looked to the cerulean god in front of him. “Never!” he spat. “You betrayed me, Saradomin. You threw away our alliance the moment your knife could find my back!”_

_Armadyl stepped forward, his movements cautious. “Zamorak,” he said. “Please. The Stone is reacting to you. It’s feeding off your desperation.”_

_The winged god seemed correct in his assessment; the stone’s red glow had only gotten stronger, and seemed to bleed into the air. The circle of dead grass was widening, blooming outwards from the epicentre with a soft rustle._

_Bandos guffawed, slapping his knee in his mirth. “Oh, close your damn beak, you stupid chicken. We’ve got him surrounded.”_

_Armadyl shook his head. “There is a peaceful way to end this.”_

_“There isn’t.” Saradomin was stony-faced as he said this, his eyes locked onto Zamorak with a burning fury. “You cannot reason with this mad dog, Armadyl. He and all his forces are devoted to evil above all else.”_

_At this, Zamorak stood up, his face twisted in pain and rage. “I have risen to power through my own strength and will, and now you fear me,” he growled. “Everywhere you spread your propaganda! Everywhere your followers whisper your lies!”_

_His blood-flecked lips stretched into a twisted grin. “But more than that, you fear my words. You are wretched and weak — snivelling cravens who cower from the truth. Now chaos will be your end!”_

_“No!” Armadyl shouted. “You’ll annihilate Forthinry!”_

_Saradomin was shouting something, while Bandos continued to laugh and hurl insults. Zamorak, however, paid them no heed._

_“Armadyl... Bandos... Hear me,” he muttered. “Everything I have done I have done for Gielinor. I seek only to raise up the inhabitants of this world!”_

_He shook his head again. “None of you deserve this power,” he muttered. “None of you.”_

_He paused. “But if I must meet my end, then I’ll see each of you see yours.”_

_He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. The other gods continued to shout at him, and Armadyl leapt forward, his wings beating in frantic desperation as he flew towards Zamorak and the Stone, both of which were glowing brighter and brighter._

_“No!”_

_The bird god’s voice was drowned out, however, by a roar like a million oceans, a million fires blazing, a million thunderclouds rumbling, as the world around them was washed away in a sea of white flame._

_The smell of grass and pine burned away, replaced by ash and cinder and ruin._

* * *

_Blackness. Not the kind that you got from spilled ink on parchment, or the kind like she’d seen on Bob the Cat, or from Sliske’s shadows, or even in the sky on the darkest night. It was the blackness of void; of nothing that demanded to be filled but could never hope to be. It was infinite, unbroken by horizon or edge, and seemed to pull at her from all sides._

_The only thing that interrupted it were the two pale dots in its center, the size of marbles. The larger was dark blue, flecked with swirls of white and green; the smaller was a uniform shade of greenish-blue, oddly familiar to her._

_She looked closer. She’d seen those green shapes before, printed on a folded piece of paper covered in notes and marks and tea-stains that never, ever left her backpack — Hans had handed it to her almost as soon as she’d landed in Lumbridge, and even though she knew the land like the back of her hand, she still consulted it frequently._

_“Gielinor?” she said in disbelief. Sure enough, she could just see Karamja, and the lower border of Misthalin, partly hidden by cloud cover, and scorched darkness in the Wilderness up north, about the size of a postage stamp._

_“Bloody hell,” she muttered. “He was right the whole damn time. It_ is _round…”_

_She looked at it for about a minute. She wondered if the Zanaris Choir could see her._

_It was funny. She thought that seeing the world this small would make it seem insignificant. Instead, it felt precious and fragile, like a tiny egg._

_Something behind it moved. She looked up._

_It looked like a star, at first — or the stars that you saw in Christmas ornaments, with rays bursting out of a central point, instead the tiny white flickering things in the night sky that made up Rat Eating String Bean._

_This, however, was much, much bigger than any star she’d seen, Christmas ornament or no._

_It stretched over Gielinor, almost seeming to swallow it in its arms. For the third time that day Teiran’s stomach lurched as the thing grew bigger and bigger, blocking out the glow and colour of the planet in its shadow._

_“Oi!” She yelled, reaching for her weapon. “Back off! That’s not yours!”_

_The… thing seemed to pause. Though she couldn’t see any eyes, she felt its gaze upon her. It sighed, a sound that was like a million oceans roaring, or the hiss of a million fires going out at once._

**It** ****

**Is**

_The words came slowly, and almost seemed to burn themselves into her brain. The shadow curved further over Gielinor and its moon, blocking them from view and swallowing them with its arms._

**Leave**

* * *

Teiran opened her eyes.

She wasn’t in the Shadow Realm any more — she saw light and colour and felt warmth, and heard the sounds of fighting. Her body vibrated with energy, and a faint green aura hummed around her hands and arms.

She looked up. 

The Zamorakians were locked in combat with their shadow counterparts. Jerrod was in his wolf form, savagely tearing at his reflection, which had locked its jaw on his shoulder. Enakhra, Hazeel, and Zemouregal were trading spells with their respective spectres, while Daquarius, sword in hand, was locked in a duel. 

The only ones who seemed to be making any progress were Moia, who landed blast after blast of energy against her shadow, and Nomad, who seemed to be slowly siphoning off the energy of his.

Khazard was the only one not fighting. He and his dark clone, it seemed, were trading insults. 

Teiran took a deep breath, and stepped off the pavilion. Energy crackled from her, the static raising her hair in a messy halo of blonde curls. 

Daquarius was the closest, his back to her. She drew the dragon sword, and, not slowing in her walk, and without a second glance, planted it in the chest of the Kinshra’s shadow. 

It dissipated with a howl, melting to the floor. She didn’t stop to regard it. 

Daquarius was shouting something, but she wasn’t listening. Instead, she took out her crossbow, and aiming it towards the trio of mahjarrat.

Three shadows became engulfed in flame, blooming outwards from where the bolts struck. Enakhra stood agape, watching as her counterpart fizzled away. Zemouregal’s face was a mix of shock and horror, while Hazeel remained stony-faced, watching the shadows melt with quiet disinterest. 

She didn’t consider them. Jerrod, who had been watching this go on, snarled as she approached. 

“Leave! This is my fight to win!” he growled. She paid him no heed, and tore the shadow-werewolf from him, slashing its throat in one easy movement and letting it slump to the floor. 

Jerrod howled, and lunged at her, only to be met by the nocked crossbow.

“Try me,” she said. Her voice echoed throughout the chamber like a bell left ringing long after it had been struck. She could see the blood-red outline around him, flaring in fury, but he did not move. 

She turned away towards Khazard. He had stopped arguing with his shadow, which was continuing to hurl insults at him, and had a look of acute, existential terror afixed on his skull-like face.

“Move,” she said. Khazard wordlessly complied.

The shadow sneered at her, raising its hand to attack. She reached it before it could strike, and swung her fist towards it. It hit its low target, hard and true. 

She wasn’t sure about mahjarrat anatomy. She was even less sure of shadow-entity anatomy. There were some agonies, however, that bridged the theoretical. 

It didn’t even slump to the floor. Instead, it dissipated in a puff of dark smoke with a wheeze. Even though he had been trading oaths with it not a minute before, she heard Khazard wince in sympathy. 

“Every time,” she said. 

She looked up, hearing steady footsteps approaching. Moia had finished off her shadow and was approaching, her face grim. Nomad had seemed to finish his off too, and was waiting around the pavilion. 

Teiran watched Moia walk towards her. Strange fire, dual-toned in black and burgundy, flickered around her, the darker flames almost overtaking the red. 

“You touched the stone,” Moia said, not so much as a question but as a statement of fact. 

“I didn’t have many alternatives at the time,” Teiran said. “And I got it here, didn’t I?”

“I question the necessity in your methods,” she said. “But it doesn't matter. Lord Zamorak is on his way. And when he arrives, the Stone is ours.”

Teiran wasn’t really listening. Instead, she was watching Nomad, his aura a sickly yellow, edge his way closer to the stone. 

“You,” she said. “Quit it.”

She began to walk towards him. Moia yelled at her to stop, but she paid her no heed. 

“What are you doing?” Teiran said. Nomad’s gaze shifted towards her, and he grabbed the spear strapped to his back. 

“For too long I have struggled to regain my power,” he spat. “Serving under masters who were unworthy of my devotion. Now I stand before a fountain of power, and all that is left is to reach out and drink from it.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to let you. I’ve killed you once. I can kill you again.”

“Death cannot stop me!” he howled “You’ll see, soon enough.”

He flung the spear at her, its weight and momentum propelling it forward with ferocious velocity. It would probably knock her off her feet from the force alone, and the sharpened tip gleamed with a manufacturer's guarantee of ‘armour piercing.’

She reached out and caught it in her hand, spinning as its momentum resisted her grip. She felt the metal heat and soften under her fingers as energy coursed through her and down her arms. 

Then she released it, the force of her throw fuelling its trajectory as it rocketed towards Nomad. It screamed through the air and struck his shoulder, just as he reached for the stone.

Nomad stumbled back, his half-concealed face twisted in pain, as he pulled the weapon from the bleeding gash in his arm. 

“Wretched weakling,” he spat. “You call yourself the World Guardian? Yet you’re nothing but a mercenary. How would your dead god see you now, helping Zamorak while he cowers in his hideout?”

Teiran gritted her teeth, drawing her sword and stepping towards him. “You’ve no right to make any moral judgements about me, mate,” she growled. “I’m not the one who tried to take over Gielinor via the power of a minigame.”

Nomad laughed hollowly. “Oh, how sweet it will be to see Sliske take his vengeance on you! He’ll crush you all as easily as insects. And where shall Zamorak be? Cowering beneath Daemonheim? Ha!”

“No,” a voice boomed throughout the chamber. Teiran was hit with the smell of ozone and sulphur, and she resisted the urge to cough. 

The room turned a shade of red, and a black portal opened in front of the stone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Moia suddenly kneel. 

Zamorak stepped through the portal, towering over even Zemouregal as he faced Nomad. He raised his hand and let loose a red blast of energy, which hit Nomad in the chest. He fell back, his eyes locked on the god in fury as Zamorak loomed over him. 

“It seems we did have a traitor in our midst, after all,” Zamorak said. “I should have known. Your fear of death has corrupted your judgement, boy. Has the concept of ‘loyalty’ been superseded by your arrogance?”

Nomad laughed again. “I only seek the ideals taught to me, ‘my lord,’” he said mockingly. “I would have thought you would appreciate my quest for power. Isn’t that your doctrine? Or have you defaulted back to your Zarosian roots?”

Zamorak said nothing. He raised his hand, glowing with crimson energy, and aimed it towards Nomad.

The prone man narrowed his eyes. Muttering an oath, he teleported away.

Zamorak lowered his hand. “Traitor,” he hissed. He turned to the stone.

“The time has come, once again, for me to take back what is rightfully mine.”


	50. Blink

Zamorak touched the stone. The aura around it flickered, before a ripple of scarlet began to dance across its surface. Zamorak closed his eyes, seeming to concentrate. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. 

“Strange…” he muttered. For a brief moment, a flash of green sparked across the Stone’s surface.

Teiran felt something rush by her. She turned. 

Sliske materialized beside her. Before she could react, he winked, and disappeared.

He then reappeared by Khazard, who he stuck with a hard blow to the middle. Khazard let out a short cry before he froze in place, his skeletal face paused in an expression of shock and agony. 

Sliske teleported to Daquarius, where the same scene repeated; and then to Hazeel, Jerrod, Enakhra and Zemouregal. One by one, he struck and froze the Zamorakians faster than Teiran could even shout. 

Moia had a quicker reaction — she had a knife ready when Sliske appeared in front of her, and slashed it towards the mahjarrat the moment he materialized. 

Sliske, however, was faster. Before the knife could meet flesh he grabbed her arm, freezing the general mid-attack. 

He disappeared and reappeared again, this time by the stone, facing Zamorak. 

Teiran saw her chance. She grabbed her whip and began to charge towards Sliske, not even wasting any energy on a scream. 

Sliske didn’t even turn to regard her. He lazily raised an arm, and Teiran felt her entire body seize, hovering mid-air. His jaw locked in place, and all she could do was let out a frustrated snarl as she glared at the mahjarrat in front of her. 

“There now! No interruptions,” Sliske said, clasping his hands together. “I think it’s time we had a little heart-to-heart.”

Zamorak scowled and relinquished his grip on the stone, turning towards Sliske. “So the ugly serpent once again rears its head.”

“Oh, Zammy, you’ve been a  _ naughty  _ boy indeed,” Sliske said. “Trying to steal the Stone back under my nose? What a way to ruin a bit of friendly competition!”

“Release my followers,” Zamorak growled. “And perhaps, I shall take mercy upon you and allow you to leave her with your life.”

“Mmm, you’re not much in a position to argue, are you?” Sliske said dryly. “It’s adorable that you’re trying to negotiate, though.”

“You stand before a god!” Zamorak bellowed. “Unlike you, I am no fraud. You would do well enough to remember it.”

“Oh, come now, we have so much in common!” Sliske chided. “Remember the days of the Empire? I was a Praetorian. You were a Legatus. You slaughtered people on the battlefield. I slaughtered people in the streets. Those were the days, weren’t they?”

Zamorak snorted. “I have no interest in petty titles and fussy hierarchies,” he said. “The empire was stagnant, like a salt lake with no outflow. Dead.”

“And I agree!” Sliske laughed. “You don’t think I was absolutely giddy with glee when you overthrew Zaros! Your ‘chaos’ theory was a breath of air. Everything’s better for it now. Far more entertaining.”

“Chaos,” Zamorak hissed, “is not a game of puppetry, where someone pulls the strings in a watered-down facade of order.”

“Hmm. Well, I would hope we could get along better. After all, our goals are one and the same.”

“You’re no ally of mine, spider,” Zamorak spat. “Crawl back to the shadows from whence you came. Even now, I’ve drawn power from the Stone. Your time has come to an end.”

“Oh, yes.” A slow smile crept up on Sliske’s face. “The energy courses through your veins, hmmm? Isn’t it delicious? It’s so easy to become addicted... like Saradomin… like Lucien.”

He glanced at Teiran, who would only clench her teeth and narrow her eyes in fury, before he turned back to Zamorak. 

“I will admit,” Sliske said. “I am too. The feeling of taking in its energy is… incomparable. Intoxicating, even. It’s not of this world, that’s for sure. Even those shielded from the influence of the gods —” he gestured to Teiran “ — find themselves drawn to it.”

“It is a tool,” Zamorak said. “One I will use to wipe the gods from this place, and bring the world to its full potential.” 

He raised his hand, bright energy surrounding him as he aimed it towards Sliske. “And the first creature I shall purge from Gielinor is you.”

The mahjarrat raised an eyebrow, and snapped his fingers. Zamorak — and the rest of the world — froze, sliding into greyscale. Sliske leisurely stepped towards Teiran, who was still paralyzed in midair.

“Time passes a little differently in the Shadow Realm, I’ve found,” he said conversationally. “If you stretch it juuuuust right, you can make little pockets of it. Enough for a chat, at least.”

He snapped his fingers again. Teiran felt her jaw unlock.

She took a deep breath. “You let me go this instant, you slimy, self aggrandizing, sadistic cave dweller with grotworm ooze for b—”

“Ah, ah! Language!” Sliske interrupted. “And really, my dear, at this point it’s like water off a duck’s back. There’s really no point.”

He strolled around her, as though observing a statue at a museum. “It seems that we’ve arrived at a crossroads!” he said. “Old Zimmy-Zam is about to try and blast me to pieces. Normally that kind of thing would be a trifle to me, but with the power of Jas behind him, I have a feeling it’s going to hurt. Not only that, but you have that very same energy pulsing through you right now!”

He shook his head. “And, quite honestly, I can’t keep a good grip on you with that. So you’ll be free to aid him.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or, if you wish, me.”

Teiran snorted. “Like I would ever help you, you disgusting git.”

Sliske shook his head. “Do my entreatments about insults go in one ear and out the other? I suppose that leaves you to help the horn-head, it would seem. Perhaps you could stand by and remain neutral, but I doubt you have that in you.”

Teiran said nothing, and simply glared at him. Sliske grinned again. 

“You know what I like about you?” He said. “You’re  _ pragmatic. _ I mean, look at you!” He gestured at her. “I don’t see you sending care packages to the ZMI or helping the Black Knights plan their silly little Falador tiff, yet here you are, hanging about with the daughter of Lucien, a mahjarrat you kicked in the sensitives, and the leader of a cult you dissolved!” 

He chuckled. “And you had the nerve to go down and do it all in the armour of the empire he helped to overthrow!” He pointed to her Torva platebody. “And I’m sure you didn’t get that after going after Nex with a personal vendetta. Why, you probably bought that off the GE from your combination rune profits, because you thought it had rather good  _ stats. _ ”

Sliske smirked. “And you’re going to help a god who turned Forinthry from a nature preserve into a life-size display for a charcoal museum get the very thing that helped him do it! The irony is delightful. But that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Teiran didn’t reply. Sliske continued. 

“And to what end? Saving Gielinor? That is, after all, your duty. And aren’t you just a  _ slave _ to duty? Aren’t we all? But that’s what you really want, isn’t it? Or perhaps it’s something else.”

He steepled his fingers together. “I’m sure what it is you  _ really  _ want is for it to go back to the good old days. When you didn’t wake up every morning wondering if the world was in peril. Back to when things were simple. When you spent your time mining rocks for hours on end and running back and forth doing stupid tasks for stupid people. Before everything had to go and  _ change. _

“But I’ll tell you this, here and now,” he warned. “When you live as long as I do, all you want is change. You crave it. You want peace? Ha! You’ll go mad from the tedium before the turn of the century. And I’m quite aware that you’ll be around to see it. You’ll fight to end all this mess. And then what? You’ll crave it again. Because that’s what all of this is in the long run. Entertainment.”

Teiran snarled. “If you think I’m going to make innocent people suffer because I want a bit of fun —”

“Ah, but when do innocent people become mere mayflies, in the context of forever?” Sliske said. “When do the people you claim to protect become insects? When you see them die, again and again, after leading mean, meaningless little lives in comparison to centuries of existence. Oh, you think it’s fine now. But soon you’ll see it my way.”

He grinned. “And you’ll want to slap yourself silly for stopping what I’m doing. Because there will come a day when you’ve done everything there is to be done, and you’ll be  _ bored. _ And you’ll wish you could come crawling back to me, admitting you’re wrong and begging for another chance at this —”

“No.” She said this quietly, but it cut through Sliske’s words like steel. “I’ll never be like you. I don’t care if I live for millennia. I don’t care if I mine every rock and do every quest and complete every achievement diary. I don’t care if I get bored. I’m not going to jeopardize Gielinor for the equivalent of a laugh at a pantomime.”   


Sliske laughed. “Oh, it’s easy for you to say now! I know what’s going to happen.”

“It isn’t.” Teiran looked up, her eyes burning with verdant fury. “You don’t know jack shit about me. I’m not going to become like you. Not now. Not ever. And if, somehow, I do, I hope to hell that someone comes along and ends me. Especially before I start monologuing like that.”

Sliske gave her a hard look, the smile slipping off of his face. “Stubborn, aren’t you?” he remarked. “I should have expected. Hmm. We’ll see how that plays out.”

He then glanced to his arm. Teiran saw that he had a miniature sundial on a strap wrapped around his wrist.

“Will you look at the time!” he said. “It grows short. It seems that our little chat has to come to a wrap.” 

Colour began returning to the world, and Teiran felt her limbs begin to loosen from their bonds. 

“Make your choice, World Guardian,” Sliske said. “And see if you can live with the consequences.”

Zamorak was moving now, slowly, but surely. The cloud of power around him began to flicker once again, a bolt of it now racing towards Sliske. 

The god’s face was fixed in a sneer. Teiran has seen that look before — when his lips were flecked with blood, and he stood in a green clearing that smelled of grass and pine and newness. And she wondered if she was letting the rest of the world follow in its fate. 

Teiran took a deep breath. She raised her hand, though it moved like cold treacle, and willed the power to blast at Sliske.

_ Don’t let him win, _ she thought, as she felt cold fire race down her arm towards the mahjarrat.  _ Don’t let the world become a plaything for a centuries-old child. If I have to defeat Zamorak, so be it. But at least I know I can get under his skin. _

The twin blasts hit Sliske with a roar. The mahjarrat did not make a sound, but his face twisted in pain. Teiran wasn’t sure if he was acting or not, but it gave her a small level of satisfaction. 

Sliske collapsed breathing heavily. “So it comes to this,” he said, his voice low. “The god and his human crony bring Sliske to his knees.” A grimace crept up on his face. “Oh, but the fun’s only just begun.”

He looked up to Zamorak, who still had his hand raised and was watching the mahjarrat with quiet dispassion. “You may have bested me now, lobster-boy. But all I’ll say is that the fallout from today’s little escapades is truly going to be  _ spectacular. _ ”

He grinned, and shot a wink at Teiran, before touching the Stone. The mahjarrat and the artefact crackled with shadowy energy. Sliske’s form wavered, turning himself and the stone next to him to void. A sudden icy feeling washed over her, choking from the cold that suddenly gripped her head like a vice. 

A moment later it vanished. Then too did Sliske and the stone disappear, leaving behind nothing but empty space.

* * *

Zamorak said nothing after the mahjarrat vanished. He continued his silence until the others unfroze, slowly regaining their movement as the shadow energy around them dissipated.

Moia was first to break free. As she saw Zamorak standing before her, she collapsed into a kneel. 

“My lord,” she said. “I apologize. I was weak. I allowed Sliske —” 

Zamorak raised his hand, cutting her off. “Say nothing, general. There was little you could do about that snake. He has absorbed more power than I accounted for.”

“But the Stone—”

“I took what I could from it. Already, I feel my power returning to me,” he said. 

The rest of the team had, by now, been freed. Zamorak turned to them. 

“My loyal followers,” he said. “You have been tested to your limits. And the traitors in our midst have been weeded out. In this chaos, we have emerged stronger.”

One by one, they kneeled. Zemouregal, she noticed, bowed his head a little lower than usual.

“Leave this place,” he said. “We shall reconvene at another point. But for now, return to your strongholds. There is much to consider from today.”

One by one, the Zamorkians departed. Khazard was the first to go, shooting a nervous glance towards her before he teleported out. Zemouregal sneered at her, while Enakhra looked reserved. Hazeel merely gave her a long, hard look. 

Zamorak seemed to be engaged in a discussion with Moia. As he was, Jerrod, still in wolf form, stooped down to Teiran, snarling in her ear. 

“Do you think you’re clever?” he growled. “Bitch?”

“Not particularly,” She said. She wasn’t sure if it was a small flicker of the Stone’s power within her, or simply an overflowing dam of impatience that was now driving her testiness. “I’m simply well-prepared.”

She patted her bag, to which Jerrod responded with a growl. “And very, very hard to kill. That Fenturary 32nd slot is still open, by the way.”

Jerrod simply snarled again, before teleporting away. Teiran rolled her eyes. “Arse-licker.”

She turned to Zamorak. “As far as we’re concerned, my end of the deal is done.”

The god raised an eyebrow. “It may be. But there are some things I wish to discuss. I am going to transport us to our sanctum.”

She shrugged. “Fine.”

He waved a hand. She found herself back in the throne room below Daemonheim, Bilrach and Moia waiting beside him. 

Zamorak turned to address them. “I wish to speak to the mortal,” he said. “Alone. Do not return until I summon you.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Moia said. She regarded Teiran very carefully for a moment, before teleporting out. Bilrach merely nodded, and similarly dematerialized.

Zamorak sat on the throne with a sigh. “Your actions… intrigue me.”

“We had a deal,” she said. “One that I hope that you’re holding up.”

“I am the god of chaos. Not the god of traitors, as I hope you would have observed, despite my origins.”

“You’d better,” she said. “Stone of Jas or no, if you back out on it I’ll kick your sorry crimson behind six ways to Essianday.”

Zamorak let out a laugh. “You really are a strange one, mortal. I was surprised that you joined this… heist in the first place.”

“I’m trying to protect Gielinor. The cards I have to work with are limited.”

“Hmmm.” He leaned forward. “Stranger still is how, it seems, you are connected to the Stone.”

“Connected how?” 

“It seems that it is now…  _ responding _ to you. It does this when it is continuously used. And, it seems, you react to it.”

Teiran shook her head. “I’m shielded from the power of the gods. You’ve seen it in action.”

“The Stone is not of the gods, it seems,” Zamorak said. “Or, at least, not on gods of the caliber that Gielinor has seen thus far.”

“One caliber at a time, then,” Teiran said. “You lot are already a handful. Is there anything else you want from me?”

“Do I have your loyalty, mortal?” Zamorak asked, his tone inquisitive. 

“No.” 

“Then why did you aid me in shooting down Sliske?”

“I’ve already told you,” she said testily. “I have limited options, so I’m using what I can to keep this place together. And I. Fucking. Hate. Sliske.”

She turned. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go home and eat a chilli potato.”

Zamorak did not reply to this at first; however, as Teiran began to dig around in her bag for a house teleport, he shouted after her. 

“One more thing!” he yelled.

“What?”

“Will you stop stealing my wine?”

She paused. “No.”


	51. Poison Dreams

Teiran sat in bed and stared at her hands, slowly waiting for them to become steady again. She was soaked through with sweat, perhaps contributing to her shivering. 

She closed her eyes. It had been three days since the Zamorakian heist, three restless nights, and three mornings of waking up like she’d seen a ghost.

She sighed, trying to snatch at the fading fragments of whatever nightmare she’d woken up from this time. She could never remember more than snippets. Shadows. Darkness. Something crunching under her feet. Pain in her hand. Laughing. Stars, blotted out by something dark and terrible.

Her hands eventually stilled, though it took longer than the night before. And the feeling of gnarled dread that had settled in her chest still stubbornly refused to go away. 

She contemplated going back to sleep. The first, early-morning rays of sunlight were only just starting to peek through the curtains, a sign that the tiredness she lacked now would start to gang up on her in the early afternoon. 

Then again, she wasn’t entirely sure it would be worse than what her dreams would hold for her. 

She got up with a groan, rubbing her eyes, and shuffled over to the washroom. There, she stared at herself, half-dazed, in the mirror. The dark circles only served as an insult to injury. 

Teiran sighed.  _ I can’t go on like this, _ she thought. One or two nights of insomnia were one thing. But running on no sleep with her lifestyle was just a recipe for disaster — and not one that ended with her getting access to a new bank chest. 

She considered visiting the Apothecary. A cadava potion would, more likely than not, knock her out long enough for her to catch up for at least a night. But even if she did go into a semi-coma, would that be enough to chase away the dark visions she was left with in the morning?

No. This would require a specialist. And, hopefully, a process that didn’t involve any troys.

She got dressed, going on autopilot, and shuffled downstairs. Marianne was already up, chopping away at a bunch of vegetables on a cutting board.

“You’re up early, miss,” the maid said, not turning away from her task. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Teiran said, grabbing a thermos full of hot water and a teabag. “I’m headed to Rellekka for the day. I should be back later this afternoon.”

Marianne didn’t reply. Teiran gave her an odd look. 

“Are you alright?” She looked at the cutting board. “You’ve been chopping the same bit of onion for about a minute now. It’s practically yellow dye.”

Marianne jerked up. “Ah! Um, sorry. Miss.” She embarrassedly wiped the onion paste off her knife. “I was, uh, thinking. About that… erm... combat move you taught the other night.”

“What, shield reflect? I know, it can be a little tricky. I can go over it again tonight if you want.”

“Um, sure. Yes. Thank you,” Marianne said. The maid still didn’t turn to face her, instead keeping her gaze fixed on the vegetables in front of her. 

Teiran chalked it up to the onion fumes. “I’m off, then,” she said, dumping a glut of sugar in her thermos and shaking it. “Check with Asmodeus if he needs a hand with the silver.”

“Uh, miss,” Marianne said suddenly. “You don’t need anything from Port Sarim, do you?”

“No, not really,” Teiran said distractedly. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” Marianne said, keeping her gaze focused on the cutting board. “I figured I’d check.”

* * *

Dawn took a while to come to the Lunar Isle, and the first rays were only just peeking over the horizon when Teiran arrived. The suqahs were still half-asleep as she passed them by. Those lucid enough to detect her presence didn’t even bother to attack — it had been nearly a year since she’d last visited, but suqah memories went long. 

The Oneiromancer seemed to be meditating when she arrived, hovering over the salt-encrusted rocks by the astral altar with a look of serenity on her face. As Teiran approached, however, her expression darkened.

“Hmmm,” the mage muttered, her eyes closed. “Odd... “ She shook her head, and, as she did so, spotted the adventurer standing nearby. 

“Teiran!” she exclaimed, standing up to her usual hover. “It’s been so long, my dear. How are you? What brings you here?”

“Oh, you know,” Teiran said. “Been busy. Gielinor seems to keep getting in mortal peril, so that eats up my time.”

The Oneiromancer scrutinized her. “You look… rather dreadful, to be honest. What’s happened?”

“Not sleeping for half a week will do that to you.” Teiran said. “That’s why I’m here. What do you know about dreams?”

The Oneiromancer raised an eyebrow. “Quite a lot. What do you want to learn?”

“I’ve been… seeing things. Shadows. Space.” She shut her eyes, trying to recreate the nightmares. “A… desert. I think.”

“Hmmm.” The Oneiromancer held out her hand, and a book materialized in it. She flipped through the pages before landing on the one she was looking for. 

“Shadows aren’t uncommon,” she said, scanning through the tome. Teiran glanced over at it, and noticed it was entirely in Fremennik rune. “They often represent the hidden parts of ourselves that we dislike or can’t comprehend. Space… like stars? That isn’t unheard of, either. It is often a manifestation of the subconscious. Sort of like a backdrop to everything else.”

“What about the desert?”

The Oneiromancer snapped the book shut. “Loneliness,” she said. “Isolation. Loss.”She paused. “Past traumas often have a way of manifesting in our dreams. Perhaps there was something that reminded you?”

Teiran looked out at the ocean. It was slate-grey, mirroring the cloud cover overhead, and choppy. The waves sucked at the rocks, swelling and retreating like they were gasping for air. 

“Everything’s a reminder,” Teiran said quietly. “It wouldn’t make sense to have these dreams now.”

“Even so,” the mage said. “It has a way of sneaking up on you.”

Teiran watched the sea moodily. “Trust me. I know.”

She turned to the Oneiromancer. “Look,” she said. “Normally I wouldn’t suggest this, but is there any chance I can use the brazier? I just… need to get into my head. I’m not sure what I’ll find in there, but I might get an idea of what’s going on.”

“By all means,” the mage said. “You’ll need another potion waking sleep. That will require, of course, a guam and a marrentill, and a ground-up suqah — oh.”

Teiran clutched a suqah tooth in her left hand, alongside two scraggly sheafs of herbs. In her right hand was a rather peculiar set of pliers, made out of what looked like a modified pair of secateurs. Behind her, a severely inconvenienced suqah clutched its mouth and regretted its life decisions. 

“Done,” Teiran said. “Got a vial?”

* * *

Teiran stood in front of the brazier, watching the flames flicker within. She weighed the vial in her hand, her thumb tracing over the cork. 

“Will it be like last time?” she asked, as the Oneiromancer added a bit of kindling. “You know, with the platforms and dice and such?”

“Not at all. That was merely the ceremonial plane,” the mage said. “Your subconscious will likely be more chaotic, so I would hope you’re prepared.”

Teiran patted her bag, which was stuffed full of rocktails. “I think I should be set.”

“Very well. Good luck, then.”

Teiran uncorked the potion and tipped it over the flames. They flickered, and turned a bright white, before filling the room with a thick smoke. 

She coughed. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered. “I suppose.”

* * *

The first thing she noticed was the darkness — far from the bright and pale dream platform she’d seen before, everything around her was a greyish black, from the ceiling above to the ground she stood on, and everything in between. The silence that should have been ringing in her ears was muffled; even her own heartbeat seemed muted in the velvety gloom. 

She unhooked her whip, carefully scanning the void for any sign of movement.

“Hello?” she said. Her voice sounded like a muffled whisper, to which nothing replied.

She took a cautious step forward. The ground felt soft beneath her feet, giving way. 

Like sand….

“Oh, enough!” She shouted, her impatience growing. “I’ve had it with this… this… cryptic bullshit! Show me a monster or something!”

Laughter, mocking and cruel, replied, ringing in the space around her. Teiran clenched her fists. 

“Whatever the fuck you are, get out of my head!”

She swung around, looking for something to fight. She didn’t care if it was a gibbering monster made out of claws and mouths. It was better than the nothing that currently faced her. 

“Come on! Show yourself!”

The hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Slowly, she turned around. 

So couldn’t see the figure’s shape in the blackness; only its eyes were visible, a sickly, bright white in the darkness. It didn’t move, but simply stared at her.

She gripped her weapon tighter. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “Whatever you are. Whatever shape you’re going to take.”

It said nothing, still unmoving. Teiran took a step towards it, whip ready. 

As she moved, something grabbed her around the arms. A black tendril had wrapped itself around her, now tightening, and slowly began to drag her towards the blackness.

Teiran resisted, digging her heels into the too-soft ground and struggling against her bonds. Normally, when caught like this, she would do the opposite, and rocket towards the attacker for a body-slam. However, every fibre of her being resisted getting any closer to the thing she was getting pulled towards.

That thing, however, seemed to be winning, slowly bringing her closer. 

She tried to hook her leg over the shadow-rope. She’d done this, once, to a Wilderness marauder with a vine whip who’d tried to lasso her as she passed by. It had ended with the would-be killer landing flat on his face, and, after about five minutes, several pounds of loot and armour lighter.

This time, however, her foot passed through the rope. If it could even be called a rope. 

Teiran cursed. “Let me go, you… whatever-the-hell you are!”

It remained silent, continuing to drag her with unyielding force. The closer she got, the colder she felt. And she was running out of options. 

_ Think, Teiran, think! _ She tried tugging again. The rope might as well have been attached to a brick wall.  _ This is your own head. Shouldn’t you have control of it? _

She glared at the figure. A massive, fire-breathing dragon failing to materialize and set the figure ablaze.

_ Shit.  _

She looked at it again. The white points burned, emotionless and unblinking. 

_What does it even want from me?_ _What is it, even? Why is it here?_

She felt a faint breeze to her right. For a moment, she caught a whiff of fallen leaves, and of saltwater. 

Something struck the figure, hard and heavy. The shadow relinquished its grip on her, and she danced back — whatever had struck it had done a hard blow. She switched her whip for a fire staff, and took aim. 

“Don’t,” a voice, soft and female, whispered in her ear.

Teirn whipped around. “Wha—?”

A hand gripped her arm. She yelped, and felt a tug to her right. 

The dark scene and its silence disappeared, replaced by soft light and the sound of waves. As her eyes adjusted, Teiran could see the colours of the sunset streaked across the sky above her, reflected in the ocean surrounding the small patch of land she stood on. 

“Dragontooth Island?” she murmured, taking in the scene. She could smell the salt water and the pine, crisp as the day she’d last been there. 

She turned. A long figure, dressed in the flaxen white of the druids, struck against the skyline as they watched the ocean. Their back was to her, and their hood concealed their head.

“Hello?” Teiran called out. “Was that you back there fighting that shadow thing? Erm, thank you for that. Er… where am I?”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

The voice  _ was _ familiar, annoyingly so, and yet its identification eluded her. Maybe she’d heard it in a crowd, and was only picking it out now.

“Excuse me?” Teiran said. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet, but yet,” the figure said. 

“What?”

“You would not understand,” the figure said. “You didn’t now. But you will, later.”

The figure turned. The druidess’ eyes were concealed by the hood, but even then Teiran could see an expression of sorrow on her face. 

“Soon,” she said. “The old gods stir.”

The figure turned again, and walked into the ocean, the waves swallowing her and leaving behind nothing but foam, before the sun dipped into the sea and the world went dark.

* * *

Teiran smelled something burning. She opened her eyes.

The Oneiromancer stood next to the remains of the brazier, idly casting  _ Humidify _ over the smoldering lump of metal where it once stood.

Teiran leapt to her feet. “What the hell just happened?”

“The brazier exploded,” the Oneiromancer said placidly, directing the rain cloud to a still-undoused part of the longhall. “It was quite the spectacle.”

“....Why?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” the mage said. “I haven’t seen anything like it in my 209 years.”

“You’re 209?” Teiran said weakly.

“Give or take a year or two. You start to lose track after the first century.” She flicked a bit of debris off of her robe. “In any case, I’m glad you’re still alive. What happened in there?”

Teiran shook her head. “Just… blackness. And Dragontooth Island, for some reason. And some druid-lady saying a bunch of cryptic things…”

“In-ter-est-ing.” The Oneiromancer turned away from the spell and squinted at Teiran. “Your aura looks fine… your eyes are normal…. Tell me, dear. Have you been communing with dark forces beyond your mortal reckoning?”

Teiran’s face was expressionless. “Define ‘communing.’”

* * *

In the end, the Oneiromancer had given her a bundle of incense to burn by her bedside while she slept, and implored that Teiran keep her updated. The mage had turned down all offers of payment for the brazier — “It was getting old, dear, and we’ll just have the next adventurer that hops along fetch us some Lunar ore and fix it —” and Teiran had left, feeling rather more confused than enlightened.

_ Why did that woman seem so familiar? _ She thought.  _ I swear I’ve seen her before….  _

Her thoughts were interrupted by something nudging at her foot.

“Oy! Ook ‘own!”

A skull in a postal hat, a letter clutched inbetween its teeth, was looking up at her imploringly.

“Oh. Hi, Postie Pete, Teiran said. “I didn’t expect to find you up here.”

“Ich a ‘ill oug og ai ay,” Pete said. “Ere, ish ‘uns or oo!”

Teiran, who, like most citizens of RuneScape, was accustomed to the language idiosyncrasies of a postman with no limbs and limited options, took the envelope from Pete’s clenched jaws. 

“Thanks,” she said, turning over the slightly-crumpled envelope. There was no return address — or even a name. 

“Who sent it?”

“Some hooded fellow around Ardougne. Couldn’t catch his name. He was rather tall.”

Her mind flashed to a certain hooded individual who tended to hand around The Flying Horse, before she mentally brushed it off. “It’s probably Arianwynn,” she said, rummaging around in her pack for a dagger. “He probably wants me to help with some coup d'etat…”

She slashed the envelope open. Sure enough, the folded parchment within bore the willowy letters of elven penmanship.

_ Urgent business. Meet me at the ruins north-west of Arandar gate, _ it read. A set of coordinates followed.

Teiran folded the letter up and pocketed it. “He probably does know that I’m still rubbish with a bow,” she said, shaking her head. “Eh, I’ll still go and see what he wants…”

She said goodbye to the post-skull, and teleported to Eagle’s Peak. 

The valley was quiet when she arrived; the butterflies wafted softly around her, their silent fluttering accenting the serenity. Far above, an eagle circled the peak of the mountain, a mere bird-shaked speck against the sky. 

She took a deep breath, breathing in the smell of grass and river and snowmelt. There were fewer empty spaces in RuneScape, it seemed, left uninterrupted by a town, a farm, settlement, monster infestation, or massive crater from a godly skirmish. The hunting grounds here had been left mercifully untouched, and she sincerely hoped it stayed that way. 

A ferret, unused to humans, attempted to gnaw on her boot. She gently nudged the creature away, and pulled out a chart and sextant. Holding the device to her eye, lightly cursing with every step, she began to head west.


	52. Freneskae

It was really so much of a ruin as it was a cairn, Teiran reflected, and it was a half-arsed one at that. She could’ve even said it was a dolmen, but there weren’t flat rocks sticking on top of it. And why build a dolmen next to a mountain?

She scrutinized the weathered slabs of marble sticking out of the ground. If you squinted, some of them  _ did _ look sort of like steps. Maybe it was an old shortcut to Arandar?

She’d been expecting a castle, or something. Not kebbits and a wayward gnomeball.

She shrugged. Newly discovered centuries-old ruins, apparently, were the modus operandi for the last two years. At this point, she wouldn’t be surprised if someone stumbled upon another God Wars dungeon in the process of doing their laundry. 

A cold breeze ruffled her hair. Suddenly, at the top of the ruined steps, something green flickered. 

When the colour began to drain from the world, Teiran didn’t hesitate. She tugged her superior dragon longsword from its hilt, pointing it at the shadowy, tall figure that slowly faded into view.

Sliske raised an eyebrow. “Hello to you too,” he said, dryly. “Is this how you greet all of your friends?”

“Can you bloody well leave me alone for at least a fucking week?” Teiran growled. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit for an immortal lifetime, much less three godsdamn days.”

She swung the sword towards him. Sliske flicked a finger, and a tendril of shadow parried the blade with the metallic clang. She slashed it back back, getting ready to swing again.

“You can try to hit me,” he said, suppressing a yawn. “However, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Oh, just you watch,” she hissed. She was about to attack again when she heard something wimper behind her. She turned, and felt her heart nearly stop.

Marianne looked to her with terror in her eyes, floating in mid-air by the tendrils of shadow suspending her there. One covered her mouth, and she could only let out a frightened squeak as the shadows tightened further. 

“Good maids,” Sliske said, “are rather hard to find, aren’t they? Now, I personally came across mine in the Shadow Realm, but she’s rather useless for anything but fawning over me. But I’m sure the Ardougne Servants guild can find you a good replacement.”

Teiran whipped around, holding the sword mere centimeters away from Sliske’s face. 

_ “You. Let. Her. Go. Now.” _ She growled, her voice shaking with rage. The mahjarrat smirked. 

“I’d put that down, if I were you. You might poke someone’s eye out.”

Marianne let out another cry, and Teiran flinched. 

Slowly, with nearly every instinctual muscle in her protesting, she lowered the sword. 

“There now!” Sliske said, clapping his hands. “Now we can talk like normal people. Oh, and please try to kill me. I’ve set that spell so that if the caster happens to expire before they end it, the whole shebang goes out like a retribution prayer. Quite clever, don’t you think?”

“What do you want?” she snapped. 

“Oooooooh, nothing much,” he said. “Just a little exploration task, really. You see that portal over there?”

He pointed to the ruin. Where the steps had once led to bare, brown mountainside, there was now a glowing green circle, framed by a translucent ring of stone. In its center was a runic symbol, which Teiran vaguely recognized as Fremennik for ‘F.’

“You want me to go in there?” She asked. “Where does it lead to?”

“Freneskae,” Sliske said. “Now that the World Gate has awoken, it seems that the door to the motherland has once again opened.”

“And what is it that you want me to do there, exactly?” 

“I’ve been doing a little research,” Sliske said, idly inspecting his fingernails. “And you know what I’ve found? Spikes of energy. Rather  _ old _ energy. The kind of stuff you’d only get in the empire, or at, oh, I don’t know, a certain temple at Senntisten…”

“What are you getting at?” Teiran said. 

Sliske rolled his eyes. “Must I spell it out for you? I want you to bring back Zaros.”

“What? No! Absolutely not,” she said, clenching her fists. “Under no circumstances.”

“No circumstances, you say?” Sliske raised his hand and squeezed it shut. Marianne let out a strangled gasp, which then cut short with a choke. 

“Stop it!” Teiran yelled, resisting the urge to grab her weapon as she felt her stomach twist. “Please. Don’t hurt her.”

Sliske lowered his hand. “Look at you! So nice and cooperative, hmmm? Now when someone else’s life is on the line.” He grinned, greasily. “So! Here’s my proposition. You go back into my hometown and bring back you-know-who, and I’ll let the maid go unharmed.” He extended a hand. “Do we have a deal?”

She stared at the proffered limb. “I don’t trust you.”

“Well, you don’t seem to have many options, do you?” He grinned even wider. “But then again, maids are rather replaceable, don’t you agree?”

Teiran looked to Marianne again. Her face had gone quite pale, and tears were streaming down her cheeks. The shadows writhed around her, seemingly ready to strike. 

“Why do you want to bring back Zaros?” she asked. 

“He’s my  _ god _ , Sliske said, his voice incredulous. “Who wouldn’t want to bring back their deity?”

“You’ve never struck me as particularly pious.”

“Oh, we  _ all _ have hidden depths. Now, are you going to interrogate me, or am I going to have to reduce the maid to mincemeat?”

“How do I know you’re going to hold up your end of the bargain?”

Sliske raised his right hand. “Scout’s honor?”

Teiran glared at him. Sliske rolled his eyes. 

“I, Sliske, Praefectus Praetorio, do swear that if Zaros is brought back to this plane in a living or mostly living state, etc, etc, that I shall relinquish control and capture of the pitiful house servant that is currently in my capture next to me here, unharmed and unaltered. There, are you happy?”

“Fine,” she said, through gritted teeth. Sliske extended his hand again.

“Shake on it?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Teiran looked back over to Marianne, who was still looking at her pleadingly. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You have nothing to do with this… it’s my fault. I’ll get you out of this, I promise.”

The maid said nothing; instead, as much as the shadows allowed her to, she nodded.

She turned back to Sliske. “I’m ready.”

She looked to the gate, a striking green against the grey of the world. Taking a deep breath, and trying not to think of the hostage behind her, she walked through it, letting the strange energy wash over her as she stepped into somewhere else.

* * *

The first thing that hit her was the heat, raw and dry and blistering on her skin. 

The second was the stench. The smell of sulfur crawled into her nostrils, burning Teiran’s lungs as she breathed in. Her eyes watered and she violently coughed, fumbling around in her bag for a facemask and hastily trying it over her mouth and nose.

She took a moment to catch her breath and hack the last of the poison gas from her lungs before she took in her surroundings. The land she had entered wasn’t really so much land as a broken bunch of rifts, rising above a dense dark cloud cover and forming a precarious path. Lava spewed and boiled from cracks in the ground, while sulfurous vapour spewed from various vents dotted throughout the broken landscape.

_ Yep. Seems like the place the mahjarrat would grow up, _ she thought.  _ No wonder they’re not inclined to visit home. _

She looked around. “Zaros!” she shouted. “Hello! It’s the Fi—  _ Sixth _ Age! Wake up and smell the Chocolate Saturday!”

An ancient entity of darkness and fate failed to reply. Instead, a lightning bolt sprouted from the black clouds above, and struck a nearby prepice, sending droplets of molten rock exploding from the point of impact. A flaming bit of gravel landed on her armor, and began to hiss and bubble. 

She sighed, and flicked it away.  _ I should have just gone home early. _

* * *

All through the time Teiran traversed the treacherous cliffsides, avoided bubbling pits of lava, and dodged random lightning strikes, she racked her brains for some way to get Marianne out of Sliske’s grasp. 

She didn’t trust him an inch to let her go, of course. She could die and go and fetch help…and then what? The only people she knew who could delve into the shadow realm were Khazard and Hazeel, neither of which she figured would be particularly inclined to help her, heist or no. And Sliske would probably know the minute she tried. 

Static sparked on one of her shoulder spikes, and she rolled out of the way just as a bolt struck the ground where she was standing. 

She brushed herself off. Frenesake was no place to loiter. She forged onwards.

When she reached the puzzle door, she didn’t even bother to suppress the groan. It looked like something she’d get off of a clue scroll lockbox. The last one of  _ those _ she attempted she’d ended up chucking into the River Elid, much to Wahisietel’s amusement. 

As she fumbled with the knot of dials, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. 

She turned around, at one point, expecting to see some shadow figure trailing her, or even a clue scribbled in the dust. Instead there was nothing, save for a faint waft of hot air from the direction of one of the vents. For a moment, she smelled something ancient — like the odour of an empty basement, or a long-forgotten room. 

Then it disappeared, replaced by the rotten-egg stench of sulphur.

She suppressed a gag and turned back to the door, vehemently wishing that she’d taken a second face mask or a sheaf of lavender. 

Behind her, a dark figure, barely visible against the blackened scorched plane of a forgotten world, a dark figure watched…

* * *

Reflectively the nihils should have been much harder than the puzzle door, Teiran thought, as she sheathed her sword and sipped on a Saradomin brew. The monsters had given her a run for her money — especially considering that they kept throwing attacks at her like drive-by cart archers — but at this point, she honestly needed to hit something, and a bunch of Nex analogues were the best she could get in this godsforsaken place.

Making chicken noises at them had also been therapeutic, even if it had enraged them to the point where one tried to tear her head in the middle of combat. Ah, well. She’d needed the challenge.

She crossed over to the other side of the cave, not even remarking on the mysteriously-conscious crystals that moved out of her way as she approached. Honestly, if there  _ weren’t  _ a bunch of mysteriously-conscious crystals that moved out of her way as she approached, she’d be a little concerned.

The exit beckoned. As she peeked outside, she caught sight of the volcano that loomed overhead. It rose from the ground like a puckered sore, its top obscured by dark and poisonous clouds that growled overhead. Barely visible against its scorched sides, she could see rough footholds that meandered their way up to the crater. 

She sighed, and, rummaging around in her bag, retrieved a half-empty flask of super strength potion, removed the cork with her teeth, and took a hearty swig.

_ Well. I’m in for a long climb. _

* * *

Her eyes burned. Her limbs burned. Her lungs burned. Everything burned and stung and protested. Wind whipped at her back as the sound of thunder grew louder, and she forced her aching hand to release the ridge of rock it clung to and reach for the next one. 

Teiran hugged the cliffside, trying to focus on anything but the agony in her limbs. She was close — bone-hurtingly, screamingly close — but even the short distance between her and the crater’s lip was far, far too much. 

Her hand found the next ridge, and she forced herself upward, despite the protestations in her legs. How long had she been climbing for? An hour? Two? The first half had been so  _ easy. _ And why the hell had she packed so many bloody rocktails?

Her foot slipped at it scrabbled for the next hold, and panic seized her body as she struggled to regain her balance. After a moment of half-kicking the cliffside she found it again, gratefully resting her weight against the jut of stone against the precipice.

_ Maybe I should rest, _ she thought, learning against the wall.  _ Just ten minutes… _

But something told her that if she did, she wouldn’t move again — barring going back to where she came at a significantly higher velocity.

She looked up to the crater’s rim again. Ten minutes — that’s how long it would take, she estimated, if she kept climbing now and didn’t stop. 

Ten minutes. How long was ten minutes again? Enough time to boil an egg, maybe. And to sing all the lyrics to  _ Gatherin’ Flax. _

She took a deep breath.  _ This is for all the hellhound heads, Marrianne. And all the bullshit. _

Grunting, ignoring the burning in her limbs, she reached upward. 

_ When spring has returned, and the flowers are in bloom, it’s time for the gatherin’, to set for the loom… _

* * *

By the time she reached the part about getting into fistfights with bald men hogging the Seers’ Village fields, she reached the top. Teiran deliriously slung herself over the crater’s lip, not even bothering to see if the middle of it was a festering pit of lava.

Her limbs fully jellified, she was thus unable to prevent herself from sliding over the side, slowly tipping into the crater below. 

Teiran tumbled, somersaulting over the mercifully-thick layer of volcanic ash that coated the side. However, no amount of ash in the world would have prevented the fact she was rolling down a hill in over forty pounds of armour.

“Ow!”

“Oof!”

“Argh!”

“Ugh!”

“Ach!”

“Ow!”

She landed in a bruised heap at the bottom of the volcano, covered in ash and uttering muffled oaths through her facemask. There she lay, relishing the excuse to not move.

After about 15 minutes, she reluctantly rose. She removed her hat, now more grey than black, and brushed it off in a vain attempt to remove the ash.

_ Alright. Hard part’s over,  _ she thought, as she jammed the cavalier back on her head.  _ All I have to do is bring back a banished god from thousands of years ago to save my maid. Easy-peasy. _

She took a moment to take in her surroundings. The crater was thankfully devoid of any boiling pools of lava, vents spewing toxic gas, or lightning bolts striking from the sky at random. The only movement were soft white flakes that drifted down from above. Whether they were snow or ash, she could not ascertain. 

Thunder rumbled throughout the crater, putting her on edge.  _ It’s just noise, _ she told herself.  _ Noise can’t hurt you. _

Thunder rumbled again. Something about it still gave her a sense of unease, sending an unpleasant prickle down her arms. The sound of it should have been coming from above. But, oddly enough, it seemed to be coming from the crater itself.

She turned. 

That… _ thing _ leaning against the stony ridge. It was a thing, wasn’t it? Those strange protrusions embedded into the rock in front of her certainly looked like fingers gripping the stone. The crack of glowing lava could be construed as a mouth. And those divets to the side might be eyes. Even if there were too many of them. 

It looked like a face. Alien, yes, and stationary. But still like a face, attached to a body heaved over a crevice in the volcano’s floor, as though it were trying to crawl out of some deep prison. 

No. It couldn’t be. Wasn’t there some sort of psycho-thingie that made you see faces in things that didn’t have them?

She stepped closer. Thunder rumbled again, like a great sigh, emitting from the formation in front of her. 

“Hello?” She said.

It rumbled, the crack of its mouth opening slightly and revealing a crimson glow within. Something shifted. Slowly, the fingers of its right hand circle into a fist, leaving deep ridges carved into the rock. Heat poured from the creature, as the divets though couldn’t possibly be eyes began to quiver….

“Stop!”

The voice was creeping and echoing, with the resonance of a choir in a deep cave. There was the old smell again — of books long-unopened, of tombs long-undisturbed, of things that should have been left forgotten in the attic of the universe. 

Something faint, purple and flickering, materialized next to her. Though it had no eyes, Teiran got the sense it was looking at her. She drew her sword.

“Game’s up,” she said. “Who are you? You’ve been following me around, haven’t you?”

“I have not been following you,” the voice echoed. “I have been leading the way. You know who I am. Say my name.”

“No,” she said. “I’m not going to give you the ego boost, for all the damn help you’ve been. What is that… thing? Behind me?”

“She stirs in her sleep,” the voice said. 

“The thing’s a  _ she?” _ Teiran said, bewildered. She turned around. She wasn’t really one to stereotype gender by appearance, considering how much her usual armour left to the imagination. But she would have to squint rather hard to even construe a humanoid shape of the behemoth in front of her.

“She is an elder god,” the voice said. “Mah.”

The figure stirred again, its eyes squeezing shut as though in pain. It rumbled and shifted, its fingers curling tighter with the sound of a miniature earthquake. 

“Her dreams can be… violent,” the voice continued. “We should talk elsewhere. Quieter.”

“Fine,” Teiran said, never taking her eyes off the giant. “Where did you have in mind?”

“Yours.”

Teiran didn’t even have time to shout before the orb flowed around her. She was enveloped by the stench of oldness, replacing the sulfur and char, as the world went around her faded.


	53. Non Compos Mentis

The world came into focus. 

Black. That’s what it was. Void, shifting and tumultuous around her, writhing and complicated. The purple orb was just barely visible against the dark, floating gently above what she more or less construed as the ground. 

“Where are we?” Teiran asked, squinting. Her voice sounded muffled again, like she was trying to speak under a heavy blanket.

“We are in the threshold of your mind,” the voice said. For some reason, it sounded distracted, and the orb began to float around erratically, as if searching for something.

“I didn’t give you permission to go mucking about in my head, thank you very much!” Teiran snapped. “Get out!”

“It is safer to speak here than in Freneskae,” the voice said. “And I merely stand at the precipice, unable to enter.”

“So we’re still in the volcano?”

“Yes,” the voice said. “And when we exit this place, we will have to deal with Mah. Hmmmm….”

“What?”

“This is not right.”

She looked around. “What do you mean? We’re in my head. It would make sense that it’s dark.”

“No.” The orb pulsed, turning a darker shade of purple. “We are not alone.”

The orb pulsed again. A bolt of dark energy erupted from its side, striking into the black seemingly at random. The space around them sifted again, rippling.

In the space where Zaros struck, the darkness… pinched. It sucked at the blackness like a king-size silk sheet being pulled through a ring, leaving a glowing white in its wake. It then condensed, writhing, into a single mass that hung in midair, before it fell to the ground with a slippery squelch. 

Teiran looked at the struggling, snake-like thing on the floor. It looked like it was made of pure void; a ribbony hold in the now stark-white floor. 

“What,” Teiran said, watching the creature thrash about, “In Abyss is that?”

“A creature of thought,” the orb said, watching it dispassionately. “ _ Halucinari vermi _ . An infectious concept given form. It burrows at the top of the mind, repeating itself. It can be annoying, at best; it was not unknown for scholars at the Senntisten to trouble one another by infecting their brethren with a repetitive song or phrase. At its most insidious, however, it crawls into the victim’s nightmares —”

Teiran didn’t let him finish. She brought her sword down on the creature so hard that the blade embedded in the hard floor below. The snake split in two, each half wriggling for a moment before it fell limp, and then disappeared with a puff of smoke. 

“That thing was in my head?” She said in disbelief. “Who the hell put it there?

The orb hovered over the spot where the snake had been. It shimmered, stretching out from its circular shape and forming into something more humanoid. The form flickered, and Teiran saw it briefly take the form of an all-too-familiar mahjarrat in a high-collared cloak, before flashing back to its orb form again. 

_ Damn him!  _ Teiran fumed. She thought back to the past month of sleepless nights. When had they started? Right after he’d ambushed in in Draynor? Had he been teasing her? Testing her? Torturing her with old memories, waiting until she would break and do the unthinkable?

Damn him! Damn him to hell! 

“Hmmmm,” the orb muttered. “It seems that my old praefectus is getting ideas of betrayal.”

“Betrayal?” Teiran spat. “He’s the only godsdamn reason I’m here right now. You think I would do this out of my own free will? He’s fucking coercing me is what.”

The orb hovered closer to her. It flickered again, before forming into the form of a mahjarrat again — this time, Wahisietel.

“There. That’s better,” not-Wahisietel said. It did not speak in his voice, but in the same, echoing tones as before. As it turned around, Teiran could see his eyes glowing a dark purple. 

“So,” he said. “You are the one Azzanadra was telling me of, it seems. The energy you radiate is of the gods. A few.” He paused. “And something else entirely… how unusual. 

He turned to her. “You are the so-called ‘World Guardian.’”

“Damn right,” she said. “I really recommend trying to burn me to a pile of ash, by the way. It’s always a hit at parties.”

“Hmmm. I have sensed your energy sequence before. It was weaker, then. Though still imbued with some modicum of power.”

“That would have been at Senntisten, when Azzanadra was phoning home. Pre-everything-going-to-hell, at least on the scale it’s gone to hell right now.”

She crossed her arms. “Now before I get your sorry behind out of this dimension, you tell me exactly how we’re dealing with that… thing outside.”

“Mah.”

“Yeah. What is she again, exactly?”

“An elder god,” Zaros said. “And my progenitor.”

Teiran’s eyes widened. “That thing’s your  _ mum _ ?”

“She is also the creator of the mahjarrat tribe. Among others.”

Teiran shook her head. “That would explain a lot…” She paused. “You called her an elder god. What’s that? A god that likes to complain about young people, eat soft foods, and needs to be in bed by eight?”

“Your humour diverts from the gravity of this situation. The elder gods are ancient, primordial beings; the creators of this universe. Mah's power is rooted in potential, in darkness and in light. I am the divine aspect of dark energy.”

“I suppose there’s an aspect of light energy?”

“Yes. Seren. Even now, I can feel her stirring…”

Teiran groaned. “Not only are you siblings, but now the elves are trying to bring her back, too? What’s next, Marimbo’s your aunt?”

“She is not.”

“Whatever. How do we get past Mah, then?”

“I will stay hidden within you. The part of you that nullifies divine energy will mask my presence from her.”

“Then what?”

“We must go to the core of Frenesake, when Mah’s divine energy resides. There you may weave me a new body.”

“Oh yeah.  _ That, _ ” Teiran said flatly. 

“You are doubtful of this task?”

She crossed her arms. “I’m the World Guardian. Part of my job description is to keep you lot off of Gielinor. So I’m not exactly welcoming you back on my home plane with open arms.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I am. Reluctantly. But enough of that,” she said, waving it away. “I weave you a new body. Then what?”

“The weaving process will take some effort,” not-Wahisietel said. “You will have to craft a Dark Simulacrum in order to serve as the basis for my corporeal form. As you gather the materials, Mah’s nightmares will attack you. Her cries shall harm you, so you must be cautious.”

“Fine. Great. Just bloody fantastic.”

“If you wish, I can enter your body, and lend you my power…”

“Absolutely not.”

Not-Wahisietel regarded her, perhaps a little coldly. His eyes burned, boring into her, as though trying to draw out something in a long stare.

“Mortal,” he said. “You know I mean you no harm.”

“Perhaps you do. Perhaps you don’t.”

“I helped you to Sliske’s dark spell from your mind.”

“That was kind of you. Thank you. But still no.”

Zaros sighed. “I am not against you. I think your actions, and your role as World Guardian, are important. I do not care if you support other gods —”

“I don’t.”

“ — either way, I do not wish to see you as an enemy.” 

His voice sounded reasonable. Logical. Plain. Even a little merciful. But Teiran felt a knife behind them, and she wasn’t about to step closer to see how sharp it was.

“I don’t either,” she said. “But I’m not about to make any deals with you.”

“Very well, then.” Zaros sighed again. “Your defiance is… admirable. If aggravating.”

_ Oh, that’s a polite way to put it, _ Teiran thought. “Well, get used to it.”

“It seems I will.” Not-Wahisietel shimmered again, replaced once again by a floating purple orb. “Let us hope that Mah does not reflect that willfulness. Shall we proceed?”

“Yeah,” she said. The image of the snake couldn’t leave her mind, any more than of the blackened figure that loomed and rumbled in its sleep. “Let’s get this bloody-well over with.”

* * *

The snowy ash was still falling when she returned. Zaros floated beside her, still in his orb form. 

Mah shifted again, her glowing mouth trembling in fear of some unseen thing. 

“She is not yet quieted,” Zaros said. “Her nightmares approach.”

“Nightmares?” Teiran said, watching the elder goddess wince. “But aren’t those all supposed to be in her —”

The air in front of shimmered with purple and blue. When the haze cleared, Teiran found herself looking at a monster — a hunched-over beast, spines jaggedly protruding from its back. The thing had no discernable legs, instead standing up on a long tail like some prehensile slug. 

“A muspah?” Teiran said, bewilderingly taking out her sword and whip. “I thought those were a myth. Jhallan said mahjarrat see it in their nightmares.”

“Mah sees it in hers,” Zaros said. “Her divine energy of creation makes them a reality.”

The creature opened its long, toothsome way and shrieked. Teiran readied herself in a battle stance.

“What are they made of, again?”

“It’s said that they are the amalgamation of the universe’s most vile and fearsome monsters, given nightmarish strength and traits.”

“Can they be killed?”

“Yes.”

She grinned. “Good enough for me.”

* * *

Fighting the muspah wasn’t easy. With each one she felled, more took its place, and their thick hides repelled her attacks. Still, one by one, they fell, collapsing into nothingness as they died. 

The scream caught her off guard. She heard a rumble as Mah clenched her fists behind her; then came the ear-splitting shriek. Teiran collapsed to her knees, clutching the sides of her head as the cry vibrated throughout her whole body. She swore she could feel her bones twist; even the strikes of the muspah in front of her could not trouble in comparison to the acute agony.

It ended, thankfully, after what had probably been about half a minute, but felt like an eternity. Even then, she stayed where she crouched, waiting for her hearing to return — even as part of her wished it never did.

She stayed well away from the god after that, backing away to the furthest part of the crater that she could as she fought the nightmares. The second scream wasn’t as bad, even if it did make the hairs on the back of her neck prickle and leave her with an unpleasant ringing in her ears.

When the last muspah fell, Mah shuddered, and let out a low, drawn-out cry. Then she slumped forward, her glowing mouth and eyes closing once more as she lay still.

Teiran caught her breath, swigging a Saradomin brew and eyeing the elder god’s now-stationary form carefully. Zaros hovered beside her. 

“What now?” she asked, stashing the empty vial away. 

“Mah sleeps once more,” Zaros said. “Had you been anyone but the World Guardian, your essence would now be scattered across Freneskae.”

“If I were anyone but the World Guardian, I wouldn’t be here,” she said testily. “I would be doing more productive things, like banging my head against a wall repeatedly.”

“Hmmm. We must proceed. Mah’s slumber will provide only a brief respite.”

“Why does she keep waking up?”

“Your essence is tainted with that of her sister. She is drawn to it.”

Teiran gave him a strange look. “What?”

“I will explain later,” the orb said distractedly. “You must now climb down the crate further, to the planet’s core. There, you may find Mah’s essence and weave it into a body.”

“Hold up,” Teiran said, raising a hand. “You can’t just say that I’m going about with the essence of that thing’s… _ sister _ ? Banging about inside of me. I’m not moving an inch until you explain some things.”

The orb floated silently for a moment, as though considering its reply. 

“It would be better…” Zaros started. “If you saw. Follow me.”

She eyed the orb suspiciously as it hovered closer to Mah. It stopped by an outcrop of rock, and Teiran could see that it was the start of a crude set of steps, carved into the mountainside and leading downwards. 

Seeing no other options, she followed the path, approaching the sleeping god with some trepidation before she began her descent. As she passed Mah’s limp hand, it trembled slightly before relaxing again, settling into the scorched earth with the sound of settling rock.

_ Yeah, _ Teiran thought as she went down the steps.  _ Stay that way. Get some beauty sleep. And dream of large…. Whatever it is elder gods want. Just don’t wake up any time soon.  _

Zaros said nothing as they descended. The lower they went, Teiran noticed, the colder it was. This struck her as odd — if they were headed towards the core, wouldn’t it get hotter, like in the Tzhaar Caves?

She shivered, in a way that was only partly induced by the encroaching chill. 

As they approached at the bottom, she could see more of the cavern floor, which was largely empty. The walls, however, seemed to be indented, holding large stone carvings that she couldn’t quite make out through the greyish haze that blanketed the area. 

They reached the end of the stairs. The haze was thicker here, like an eerie mist that hung around without the damp. 

“What now?” Teiran said.

“You must gather Mah’s energy and weave it into a dark simulacrum,” Zaros said. “That shall form the basis for my physical body. It must be done carefully — if you weave it into a light simulacrum, it would be disastrous.”

“Disastrous how?”

The purple orb said nothing, hovering silently over the mist-covered floor. 

“I would be… weakened,” it said, after a measure. “Grievously.”

“Would it kill you?”

“Eventually. But not immediately. If you are looking to be rid of me, there are other, more efficient ways.”

“Oh. Darn, then,” Teiran said. However, the gears of her mind were slowly turning, weighing this new information with careful precision. 

There  _ were _ other ways to kill gods. She’d seen one of them with her own eyes. But that method was currently out of her hands. 

It would be a risk, of course. But she doubted Sliske wanted Zaros back out of devotion — if anything, he wanted another player on the chessboard. If anything, he likely wanted an opportunity to gloat over his old god. 

“Ok,” she said aloud. “I’ll get you enough energy for a dark thingie. Then I give it to you and you take it from there?”

“Yes.”

“Where do I get the energy, then?”

“Here. It is dissipated around us, though invisible to the eye. Seeing it will require an Elder Artifact: the Measure.”

“Elder Artifact?”

“Ancient tools used by the elder gods when they created the universe. The Measure is but one of them — there’s also the Catalyst, the Siphon, the Need —”

“Yeah, yeah,” Teiran said, waving a hand. “Where do I find the wossname?”

“The Measure.”

“Whatever.”

“It lies behind you.”

Teiran turned around. Nothing that would strike her as an artifact of ancient power caught her eye — there was only rubble, a couple of cracks in the ground, and…

“What, behind that stick?”

“Your terminology is imprecise,” Zaros said. “But, for the sake of correspondence: It is the stick.”

Teiran picked it up. It should have felt warm, or glowy, or vibrating with power or something. Instead, for all the world, it sat in her hand like a glob of mud.*

A flicker caught her eye, and she looked up. She could now see wisps — pastel and glimmering as they drifted over the cavern floor, much like the ones that floated over the rifts on Gielinor. Teiran, however, remained unimpressed.

“Is this all it does?” she asked. 

“In essence.”

She sighed.  _ Well, if it really were an all-powerful wossname, _ she thought,  _ the Elder Gods wouldn’t have just left it on the floor in a random cave underneath a dead world, would they? _

Hefting the Measure, and eyeing the wisps closest to her, Teiran set to work.

* * *

It took her the better part of an hour for Teiran to gather a decent number of wisps, and she slowly made her way towards the back of the cavern, cursing as she chased after the glittering lights. 

“Bloody annoying little things…” she muttered, as she lunged after one. “Worse than implings… I’ll take a random bucket of sand in my inventory over  _ this _ any day…”

She skidded to a stop, realizing that she was about to collide with one of the walls. As she threw out her arm to regain her balance, her hand brushed against something smooth and round. Her palm tingled. 

Teiran looked up. 

The thing lodged in the wall… it was about the size of a decently-large kitchen larder. Roundish, too, where it wasn’t broken and jagged. Where it wasn’t broken, it has a mosaic surface, rather like a tortoise-shell. And a tingling presence about it, like a certain, all-powerful wossname…

“What the hell?” she said, stepping away from the object. She looked to the other crevasses, which, until this point, she had ignored. Each hollowed nook revealed a similar sight; a hollowed, empty orb.

Zaros, who had drifted her way, seemed to be taking in her discovery with disinterested passivity. 

“Ok,” she said. “Game’s up. What are those… things? Why do they look like the Stone of Jas? Are there more of them?”

The orb hovered silently, before answering. 

“Do you know how this universe was created, mortal?”

She shrugged. “Elder Gods, I guess?”

“Do you know  _ why  _ they created it?”

“Shits and giggles?”

“No.” The orb darkened slightly. “Everything you know and see here — Gielinor. Freneskae, and all other planes you have and have not yet seen — were crafted with one, singular purpose in mind.” Zaros turned to the cave walls. “These are eggs — or, rather, empty shells. Borne of the Elder Gods in the previous cycle of the universe. From these will emerge a new generation; blind, stumbling, and young.”

Zaros turned back to Teiran. “And all young,” he said. “Must feed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *i.e. brown and sticky


	54. Nightmare at the Cradle

Teiran looked at the empty shells, trying to approximate the size (and appetite) of the creature that would emerge from it. 

They were probably, she concluded, Too Bloody Large.

“So these… things,” she said. “Elder Gods. They eat planets?”

“Not exactly,” Zaros said. “They feed on anima — vital spirit that resides in every planet’s core. It binds the world together, and is what allows life to subsist and thrive on it.”

“And what happens when they, er, eat it…?”

“You can see the consequences around you,” Zaros said. “I do not know what Freneskae looked like before Mah and her sisters hatched, but it was, likely, not what it is now.”

Teiran suddenly felt unsteady. She sat down on a bit of rock, attempting to make sense of what she’d just been told. 

“Mah is one of them?”

“In a sense. Half-formed. Half-aborted. Freneskae did not contain enough anima for her to be sustained, and so her sisters left her.”

“That’s harsh.”

“The Elder Gods have little room for sentiment.”

“And the Stone of Jas…?”

“An egg of the elder god by that name,” Zaros said. “Forged into an artefact of divine energy.”

“Jas hardboiled her own egg?”

“As I said, the elder gods have little room for sentiment.”

“And where are they now?”

“I do not know exactly,” Zaros said. “But I suspect that they — and their young — are on Gielinor.”

Teiran’s mouth went dry. “What?”

“Why do you think Gielinor is so rich with life?” Zaros said, floating past her. “It was crafted to feed their offspring. When I first arrived there, I could sense them — faint. Sleeping. But present.”

Teiran shook her head. “No, no, no,  _ no, _ ” she said, half-laughing. “I already have to deal with… with gods. Ok? Gielinor’s been around for thousands of years, and I’ve never heard any inkling of giant eggs lying in wait to hatch and, and  _ eat  _ it.”

“They are older than recorded history,” Zaros said. “There would be little reason to have written account of them.”

“Fine. Fine then,” Teiran said, trying to quell the sudden dizziness that had hit her. “Let’s say that this is all true, and, uh, there’s a whole party of Elder Gods under the surface of the world, waiting to pop out and devour everything like a lemon sherbet. Is there anything I can do about it?”

“No.”

“Fuck.”

She closed her eyes, taking in as deep a breath as the facemask would allow her to.  _ Look on the bright side, Teiran, _ she thought.  _ Nothing matters anymore. Zamorak and Saradomin can tear up Lumbridge as much as they damn well like. It won’t matter, because everything will end up like Freneskae anyways. Maybe I can actually take a day off, now… _

“I do not wish to cause you despair,” Zaros said, hovering closer to her. 

_ Too late, _ she thought. “Yeah, well, there isn’t much to do, is there?”

“There are… actions that can be taken.”

She sat up. “What kind of actions?”

“I can stop them.”

“How?”

Zaros hovered closer to a nearby wisp; as he did, she noticed that she orb seemed to glow a little more fiercely, looking less translucent against the cave background. “My time on Freneskae has given me insight. With enough time, and with enough energy, I may counter them with power equal to their own.”

“You’re saying that you’re trying to become an Elder God?”

“Yes.”

She scrutinized the orb, trying to discern any sort of emotion or hint from it. However, she could find none.

“Why do you want to help Gielinor?” she said. “You’re not even from there.”

“It is a land filled with life,” he said, simply. “One that is refreshing from all this desolation. I have grown to care for it during my time there. And I wish for it to grow to its full potential.”

“And what,” she said, “does that mean exactly?”

“You will learn, in time,” Zaros said. A rumble echoed throughout the cavern, sending dust showering down from the ceiling. “But we must not tarry. Mah stirs again; you must weave me a body before she awakens once more.”

“Fine.” She turned away from the orb and back towards the wisps, trying not to look at the crevasses in the wall as she chased energy and let her thoughts churn.

She had no options, it seemed. The size of those broken shells didn’t bode well for what lay beneath RuneScape… could she win a fight with an elder god, even a young one? She couldn’t even hold her own against Zamorak. If she became stronger, or if she had the Stone of Jas… even then…

She looked to the orb again, which was still hovering nearby. Was it just her, or did it seem…. Hungry? Eager, perhaps? The situation was hopeless, Zaros told her. And only he could possibly help her….

Which struck her as rather odd. If there  _ were _ elder gods on RuneScape, it was awfully convenient that Zaros was telling her… and that he was the only one to help her…

She caught another wisp, bright and glowing in her cupped hand. Zaros had been helpful to her, of course. But she was also his only ticket out…

“That should be enough,” the orb said. “You may now begin to weave the simulacrum.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on.” She pulled the captured energy from her pack and set to work, letting the wisps form themselves under her fingers. She was surprisingly decent at divination, for as infrequently as she practiced it; these bits of energy in particular seemed to almost form themselves without much guidance on her part.

As they did, she noticed that they were taking on a rather… lighter tone. In fact, as they continued to coalesce, the shape they were forming was turning a soft blue — a colour that she could not construe as dark.

This did not go unnoticed. Zaros was now hovering closer, and the orb’s colour was now churning like a bottled storm. 

“You are forming the wrong simulacrum,” he said, his tone a touch testy. 

“What? Will this one not match the curtains?” she said, not taking her eyes off her work.

“If you give me this, I will not be able to sustain my form.”

“And?”

“Do you want your world to die?” His tone had changed; it was now icier, more urgent. She gave the god a long, hard look. 

“That’s a question separate from the circumstances, I think,” she said, carefully. 

“You speak from a place of hatred,” Zaros said. “I have aided you —”

“And to what point?” She said. “I don’t think you want to save Gielinor because of the warm fuzzies it’ll give you. Prove me wrong. But you ruled an empire, didn’t you? And there’s little to convince me that you won’t do it again.”

“I did what needed to be done,” Zaros said. “When there was nobody else to do it. I wish to speak on behalf of mortals —”

“But you aren’t mortal.”

“I understand them.”

She looked at the orb. It still remained dark and purple, formless and ageless. 

“Say your plan works, then,” she said, carefully. “What happens afterwards?”

“I will continue to lead and protect Gielinor,” Zaros said, “to the best of its potential.”

She nodded, slowly. “I see.”

She turned back to the simulacrum forming beneath her hands, spinning the last thread in place. She gave it a quick glance over, and then turned back over the Zaros, holding it out to him. The orb had no eyes with which to look at her, but she felt the glare from it nonetheless.

“You are aware of what you are doing?” he said, looking at the light-coloured object in front of him. 

“Quite.”

“Do you know what the consequences of your actions may be?”

“I have a pretty good idea of what might happen otherwise.”

“You would prefer to see your world destroyed than me aiding it?”

“That’s not what I said.” Her voice was quiet, but it echoed throughout the cavern nonetheless. Far above, Mah rumbled in her sleep, sending another shower of dust downwards.

Zaros did not reply, simply hovering in front of the simulacrum. The light from it almost, by contrast, seemed to make his orbish form seem faded.

“You have… potential, World Guardian,” he said, his voice now more subdued. “You carry the power of Jas within you. Small. Yet latent. I can help you realize it.”

“No.”

“Do you wish to save the world?”

“Of course. What’s your point?”

“You will need —”

“Save it,” she said. “I could explain this to you until my face is blue. If I’m going to save Gielinor, it’s going to be in a way where someone else isn’t going to come in and fill the gap where the elder gods left off.”

“You misconstrue —”

“No,” she said. “I think I construe your intentions, Zaros. You don’t think I can’t tell you’ve been patronizing this whole time? If this is how you treat someone trying to save your arse, then I’d hate to see how you’d treat other mortals that aren’t strong enough to brave Freneskae. Guthix cared. He cared enough to leave us alone.”

“Then I see that you cannot be convinced,” Zaros said. “You remain stubborn. Willful. Defiant. And you doom Gielinor by doing so.”

“Maybe I do. In any case, this is what I’m offering. Take it or leave it.”

The orb did not reply. It floated, for a measure, by the simulacrum without comment. 

And then: “So it is. And so it shall happen. But do not think that this action does not come without consequences,  _ mortal _ .” The last word, she noted, had teeth to it.

The orb hovered closer to the woven form. It seemed to sigh, and slowly sank down into the simulacrum. The doll-like figure pulsed, and grew, its limbs and torso extending like an unfurling plant, pushing upward and outward. As it did, it grew darker and more shifting, as though it waged a war within itself; and Teiran noticed the deep crack in the front as it continued to grow. 

The figure suddenly hunched over, as if in pain, and dark energy began to ooze from the wound. However, it straightened up a moment later, solidifying against the gloomy backdrop. It shuddered, and slowly, details in it began to form; first a robe, then armour, strange and angular and scaled against his amorphous form. 

The mask struck her as strangest as all — half of a broken thing, with strangely-detailed lips that were far too low on whatever could be construed as his face. She felt an odd revulsion seize her as she watched the mouth flicker and twitch, unbidden. 

Then the smell hit her again: stronger, more ancient. It was like old bones and dusty roads and ash; like forgotten rooms, like sarcophagi, like scorched parchment and ice caves and things long left dead. She shuddered, almost wanting to sneeze, but instead merely squeeze her eyes shut as they threatened to water. 

Zaros let out a sigh, his voice now stronger and more concentrated.

“A form…” he said. “Something I have not felt… for so long. Imperfect. But viable.”

He turned to her, the coldness of his gaze persisting even without proper eyes. The mask moved its lips as he spoke, and she did her best not to look at it too much.

“I will return to Gielinor now,” he said. “Mah stirs. Allow me to transport you as well.”

“I’ll walk,” she said, coldly.  _ I don’t want to owe him any favours. _

“Hm. Stubborn to the end,” Zaros said. “And we shall see what undoing that will be to Gielinor. The weight of a world rests on your shoulders, mortal. I hope that the consequences of your action shall not condemn it to destruction.”

Teiran didn’t reply, simply glaring at him. The god raised a robed hand, and began to fade into the background.

“We shall meet again, mortal,” he said. “And next time we do, I would hope that you learn.”

* * *

The walk back was long. And quiet. Mah stirred a little when Teiran passed by, but she was over the volcano lip before the goddess could fully waken. 

All the way back her stomach felt queasy, as did her thoughts; and it had nothing to do with the sulfur vents that violently spewed beside her. 

When she reached the World Gate she exhaled, perhaps, partly, looking forward to the fresh air; though, even then, the thought of that felt like a threat in juxtaposition to Freneskae, and what she knew had lain beneath it.

She stepped through the portal, gratefully letting the light of the late afternoon blind her. Everything was quiet and loud at once; the smell of the grass was aggressively soft and sweet, the sound of the birdsong peacefully cacophonous, the feel of damp air on her skin an invading blanket. Without a second thought, she tore off her facemask and breathed deeply, devouring the air like she’d never tasted it before.

She opened her eyes. It was green. It was springtime. Things were  _ alive. _

_ And now, _ her thoughts interrupted her,  _ you have everything to lose. _

The sound of birdsong stopped. The warm damp faded, replaced by monochrome nothingness, and she felt the shadow realm envelop her. 

Sliske was waiting, tapping his foot and looking petulant. When he saw her, he scowled.

“Can you believe it?” he said. “I go to all this trouble to get the Grape-Aid Man back, and what does he do the minute he steps into this realm? He excommunicates me!  _ Me! _ He said that my betrayal was too great. Ha! Well, he’ll have to find someone else to do his dirty —” 

“Where’s Marianne?” Teiran said. Her voice was quiet and low. 

“Who?”

“The maid.” Her hand was wrapped around the handle of her whip.

“Oh? Oh,  _ that, _ ” Sliske said. He snapped his fingers. Marianne appeared in front of her, still wrapped in shadow tendrils. Despite all the time Teiran had spent in Fresenskae, the maid’s appearance hadn’t changed, which struck her as odd.

“A deal’s a deal,” Sliske said. “Cooperative gods or not. What was it I said, exactly? You bring back Zaros —”

“And you release Marianne,” Teiran growled. 

A look of confusion crossed Sliske’s face. “ _ Did _ I say that, now? Hmmm. I was pretty sure I said the maid.”

He turned over and looked at the figure wrapped in shadows next to him. “Relomia!” he said, with an exaggerated gasp. “You take that disguise off this instant! You know it confuses people.”

The thing that looked like Marianne giggled. With a puff of smoke she vanished, as did the shadow tendrils, and was replaced by a grey-skinned woman in a purple maid’s uniform, horned and grinning. 

Teiran froze. “What?”

“It was a clever little prank, don’t you think?” Sliske said. “I’m surprised you feel for that one, honestly. It doesn’t take much illusion magic to —”

“Where. Is. She?” Teiran said, her body quaking with rage. 

“Hmm?  _ Your _ house servant?” Sliske shrugged. “Beats me. Probably shining the mantelpiece, or something. It’s not my job to feed her.”

“You… you tricked me!” She bellowed, launching herself towards the mahjarrat. He neatly sidestepped her, and she tumbled onto the soft grass with a squelchy thud. 

Teiran shot to her feet, her mind white-hot with anger as she scanned the clearing for him. 

“Oh, don’t get yourself in such a tiff,” Sliske said, suppressing a yawn. “I made the conditions quite clear. I let the maid go, didn’t I? It’s your own fault for not recognizing it was  _ my _ maid.”

Teiran didn’t reply, and instead slashed her whip towards him. He batted it away as someone would bat away a fly, shaking his head.

“Oh, give up,” he said. “Zaros is back. Oh,  _ and _ you’ve pissed him off for giving him the wrong thingie. Honestly, I think you’ve outdone yourself this round.”

He grinned. “Goodbye for now, ‘World Guardian.’ If you can even live up to that title now…”

With that, he snapped his fingers and disappeared, taking Relomia, who was in the middle of blowing a raspberry, with him.

The shadow realm faded into the verdant peacefulness of Eagle’s Peak; a serenity soon shattered by Teiran’s agonized bellow of rage.

* * *

She teleported to Ardougne as fast as magic could allow her, tearing through the house portal and racing through the garden into the parlour. Asmodeus barely had time to greet her when she grabbed him by the shoulders, panting with a mix of exhaustion and fright.

“Marianne,” she choked. “Where is she?”

“In the kitchen, madam, I saw her not a moment —”

“She’s been home all day?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Good.” She turned towards the house portal, still visible through the open door, and glared at it, as though daring something to come through it. 

“You know demonic wards, right?” she said, turned back to the butler. 

“Of course, madam.”

“Use all of them on the door,” she said. “As many as the gatestone can handle. Nothing gets in here but me.”

“Who shall conduct the grocery runs, madam?” 

“I will,” she said. “You’re staying in here, understand?”

The butler nodded. “Of course,” he said, slowly. “And what about —?”

“Miss?” Marianne appeared at the door, her expression worried. Teiran let the butler go and ran towards her, catching her in a tight hug. 

“Marianne,” she said, sagging with relief. “Gods, I....”

“Miss!” the maid said. “What in Gielinor’s gotten into you?”

Teiran released her, and saw that her face was filled with worry. 

“Marianne,” she said again. “You’re not to go out, ok? Not under any circumstances. Not for supplies. Not for pickpocketing.”

The maid’s eyes widened, and the colour suddenly drained from her face. “B.. but miss…”

“No buts,” Teiran said, shaking her head. “I’ve got to keep you and Asmodeus safe, Marianne.”

_ And I can’t let this happen again. _


	55. Faithless

Teiran hiked through the desert, the sand sifting under her feet as she made her way north. The wind had picked up, biting her cheeks with the tiny shards it carried. The sun was to her right, slowly sinking, and the cliff by the ruins of Ullek cast a long shadow across the cooling desert.

She paused, for a moment, and turned her back to the sharp wind as she took a draught from waterskin. She should have just teleported home, but she needed the walk to consider some things. As well, Nardah wasn’t far, and she was hoping Wahisietel would be around to answer some questions. 

The strange statue underneath Sophanem had only confirmed her worst suspicions — in addition to the ones on Karamja, Entrana, and White Wolf Mountain. The Measure had lit up like a candle, and she had the odd unease that she’d felt back on Frenesake. She felt like she’d brushed with something old — very old. And something that wasn’t to be disturbed. 

The stone heads had merely loomed, their mouths agape as interrupted mid-word. If they could say anything, however, they weren’t saying it to her. 

When she’d found the funny glowing wisp around Ullek, she felt her hand prickle. As much as she tried to chalk it up to desert heat, something told her she could no longer use that excuse. 

Teiran took another pull of water. As she tilted back her half-empty pouch, she turned back to the horizon ahead, which was only half-visible through the haze of heat, dust, and dying light. 

As she squinted, she saw a lone figure standing, dark against the reddish background. It rippled with the heat radiating off the ground, but was otherwise still. 

She took out her whip. Mysterious entities seldom stood in the middle of a desert looking for a friendly chat. And though the shape’s figure reminded her of a cactus, it didn’t hurt to take precautions. 

It was the figure that attacked first. She couldn’t tell what spell it sent rocketing toward her, but whatever it was, she only barely dodged the blast. As it streaked across the desert floor, it left a track of molten glass in its wake. 

“Hmmm.” Teiran shifted her stance, grabbing the dragon longsword as she prepared herself. “Someone means business.”

She launched herself towards the figure, using her momentum from her movement as she half-sank into the sand. Another blast leveled her way, which only barely missed again; a third she had to dodge proper, skidding to the right and sending a shower of sand arcing from her boots.

The dust cleared, and she was able to see the figure better now; its black and red robes fluttered in the wind, and its horned headpiece cast long shadows across the rust-coloured sand. 

“Azzanadra,” Teiran said, not lowering her weapons. “What do you want?”

“You’re bold,” the mahjarrat said, his tone weighed with barely-suppressed rage. “To plead ignorance after what you’ve done to him. Even bolder, perhaps, to stand before me in my lord’s armour, no doubt looted from some temple you pillaged.”

“First of all, I bought this,” she said. “And it wasn’t cheap. I had to make a lot of damn summoning potions just for the platebody. Second of all, is this about Zaros? I would have thought you’d be happier, what with me bringing him back.”

“You would dare to think I’d be grateful!?” He held up a hand, now churning with smoke magic, ready to be released. “He was at your mercy. He aided you. And you dared to harm him!”

He released the ball of smoke, blasting it in her direction. Its range was too wide for her to truly dodge, and she was enveloped in a greasy black cloud. 

Teiran coughed, trying to get her bearings in the smog as her eyes stung and watered. She couldn’t see a foot in front of her — and so decided to stop trying. 

She closed her eyes, and felt the world around her.

Being in a fight boiled down to two things: senses, and her reactions to them. You never thought in a battle. Thinking was too slow — the time in between a half-formed idea and a heartbeat was inevitably punctuated by someone rudely trying to kill you. Instead you turned off the thinking bit, and become, in a sense, stupid; see, do. Animal-like. A beast running on instinct. 

The key thing was making that instinct very, very precise. 

Her eyes shut, she opened up her other senses. Smell: Smoky. Blech. Taste: Similar. Sound: Roaring winds, with hissing undertone as the sand whipped around her. Touch: Prickly, also due to the sand, made somewhat sticky with the smoke. 

From overhead, however, she felt an errant air current stir….

Teiran rolled out of the way almost as soon as Azzanadra landed, sending up an eruption of sand as he hit the ground. She righted herself, just as she felt an ice spell hit her left arm. Frost crackled up her armour, freezing it in place, and she frantically attempted to wrench her way free.

A second ice spell struck her in the legs, and she titled over, landing in the soft sand. Teiran muttered an oath, straining her limbs against her freezing bonds.

Azzanadra walked over to her, his footsteps noiseless as he approached. His expression was one of cold fury, and he held a boiling blood spell in his hand. 

Teiran gave him a dirty look. “What the hell is your problem!?” 

“My lord,” he said, his voice a low growl, “could very well die because of your actions.”

“Your lord,” she said, still struggling, “is trying to become an Elder God! Which apparently clear out the planet like a godsdamned worm bowl when they’re hungry!”

“He’s attempting to save this world, not devour it!” Azzanadra snapped. “You need to trust him.”

“He’s a god,” she said, her face darkening. “One after more power. I don’t trust any of them.”

Azzanadra shook his head. “Have you faith in nothing? Are you so blind as to walk in the dark with no light to guide you? No principles? Stumbling, with no path?”

“I don’t need a path!” she snapped. “Not one anyone else put out for me. I find my own way. Not someone to drag me along like a child.”

She let out a curt laugh. “And besides — how can I have any faith? I’ve had nearly everything taken from me by gods and people aspiring to be them. I can’t die. I’m in charge of an entire damn world, which I just found out is under threat of a bunch of eldritch abominations sleeping in its core, ready to crack it open and eat its insides. How can I believe in anything after that?”

“But there is Zaros,” Azzanadra said. “Ever there, with his guidance.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand, do you? I suppose the only thing you could really relate to was him. How long do you mahjarrat live? I don’t reckon you have much affection for us squishier types, what with us dying in the blink of an eye to you. And between all the infighting, I don’t suppose you hold much love for your own kind, either.”

Azzanadra’s face twisted in rage, and she smirked. “Ha. Is this the first time you’ve felt proper loss, Azzanadra? Now that your god might die? Welcome to how the rest of us fe—”

“No. You don’t understand.”

His voice had turned cold, low and quiet — dangerously so. Teiran felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck, as the blood spell in the mahjarrat’s hands fizzed into frost. 

“You don’t think I know what loss is?” he whispered. “You think our kind are so bloodthirsty that we do not mourn one another? You would think, after all these centuries, a day goes by where I do not regret those who have died from my deficiencies?”

He swept his hand over the surrounding desert, desolate and harsh. “How many have you lost, hmmm? One? Two? Six? I don’t expect you heard the screams of hundreds — your family, your compatriots, your friends for millennia — as they were obliterated around you? Have you ever regretted that your ineptitude doomed your own kind to extinction?”

He turned back to her. “200. 200 of us were all that I could protect. And half of them betrayed us — betrayed me, betrayed what few remained, betrayed my lord. How many of them could I have wished to trade for those I could not have shielded from the blast?”

Azzanadra let out a hollow laugh. “Even Freneskae’s harshness fails to mellow the bitterness of death. It’s been thousands of years since my brother lived, and yet, it haunts me. I slaughtered an entire tribe for the crime they committed in killing him, and yet their blood, and all this time, have not softened the blow.”

Teiran didn’t reply. The lonely wind howled over the empty desert, stirring the sand into a hissing sigh. The mahjarrat stood over her, the cold blue of the ice spell reflecting on his face. To her surprise, she could see the glint of tears on his cheeks — silent in their arrival, but present nonetheless.

“Go on,” she said. “Kill me.”

“No.” He let the spell flicker out, and lowered his hand. “My anger has… driven me to more primitive forms of expression. Violence will not resolve your ignorance.”

He turned back to her. “I owe you nothing, human. You may have rescued me from my confines in Jaldraocht, and you may have aided me in contacting Zaros… but, at this point in time, I consider our scores even.”

He curled his fingers inwards, and the ice around Teiran’s limbs shattered. She sat up, bending her legs and arms back and forth as she felt the blood return to them. 

“Consider this a formality,” Azzanadra said. “I will pose no further threat to you, so long as you pose none to me, or Zaros.”

He turned to leave, before pausing. “However,” he said. “If Zaros’ death comes through your actions…” He turned back, his eyes full of fury. “I will destroy you. Without mercy.”

He then turned back to the horizon and began to walk towards Nardah. 

“You can try!” she yelled. “I’ll come back! Kill me, and I’ll be there again!” 

Azzanadra appeared not to hear her. He continued to walk, as the long shadow of the horizon and the remaining heat left radiating from the sand slowly consumed his figure.

She sighed as she watched him go. “And again,” she said. “And again, and again, and again.”

Somewhat at a loss for what to do, she took out her waterskin and took a swig. Though it was heavy, no water flowed. Teiran lowered the bottle and peered inside. 

The entire contents had frozen solid. 

“Ah, fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi readers! I hope you enjoyed Part III of _A Hard Fall_. It's been a wild ride so far. The end is nigh - Part IV will begin publishing in a week, and it will be the final act of this crazy story I somehow managed to write.
> 
> As always, thank you for your support and readership. If you enjoyed the story so far, feel free to drop a comment and a kudos. 
> 
> All of my gratitude to [DiAnima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiAnima/pseuds/DiAnima) and [fennfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennfics/pseuds/fennfics) for beta reading.
> 
> <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=db5_g9Luw5k>


	56. Battered Soul

The only pleasant side effect of the entire Zaros affair was that the frequency of Teiran’s nightmares (at least of the unpleasant, prophetically traumatising variety) had reduced, and the month that followed was mercifully quiet. 

Maybe it was a  _ little _ worrisome that she didn’t hear anything from any of the other deities. Saradomin and Armadyl remained in their respective settlements, and Teiran made no moves to contact them. Zamorak was presumably still beneath Daemonheim. 

She’d heard rumours, too, of other gods making headway. Marimbo had been sighted around Ape Atoll. Prifddinas was growing again from crystal seed, said to be empowered by Seren’s presence. Cabbages everywhere had been sprouting at an unprecedented rate, hearkening the rise of their vegetable demiurge... 

Teiran declined to investigate, at least for the time being. Dealing with the gods nearly always gave her a headache, and the aftermath of Freneskae was a taste she wouldn’t be able to wash from her mouth for some time.

Still, she reflected, she could count her blessings. Azzanadra seemed to be keeping to his word and keeping his distance, and Zaros was maintaining a low profile — at least, for now. The lack of activity on Sliske’s part was a little worrying, but she figured he was licking his wounds after his excommunication.  


At least, she hoped.

Not everything was entirely well. Marianne had been particularly demure in the past fortnight, which Teiran chalked up to the fact she was under practical house arrest. Even so, when Teiran offered to escort her on market runs and pickpocketing sessions for the sake of getting out of the house, the maid had refused, and then swiftly retreated to her room. 

Teiran tried to tell herself it was for the best. Though she had fewer nightmares, the image of Marianne trapped in shadow had crawled unbidden into her mind’s eye far too often for her liking, never failing to fill her with tense unease. Sliske  _ had  _ been quiet, and maybe he was waiting for something. A chink in her armour, perhaps, that would strike truer than any illusion. 

_ Not again. Not again.  _ Everything would be over soon, she told Marianne. It was for her own safety, until Sliske could be dealt with. The maid, at the time, had nodded; but her seeming agreement didn’t hide the look of betrayal in her eyes. 

It was thus, on a particularly gloomy Ivanday afternoon, that Teiran found herself in Edgeville, shielding herself from the scattered rain with a week-old copy of  _ The Varrock Herald  _ while consulting a grocery list.

_ Onions, beef, chicken, cabbage, bread, milk, eggs, brutal arrows… _ She scanned the scrap of paper Marianne had given her that morning, and was silently thankful for Cyrisus having sat down with the maid and taught her the art of legible printing. Teiran herself had tried, though her own lettering was more on par with chicken scratch, and the maid’s resulting copied script had reflected this. 

Marianne's newly-improved penmanship wasn’t quite as tidy as his, but there were similarities: the curled tail at the end of  _ a,  _ or the loops of the  _ g _ ’s in  _ eggs. _

The rain began to pick up, a few fat droplets striking the newspaper above her. She gave the headlines a cursory glance as the paper turned translucent. Blah, blah, Handelmort mansion robbed, new archaeology site found in Kharidian desert, billowing smoke seen over Crandor, man finds treasure casket in dresser drawer… all tabloid stuff. 

Teiran sighed. She had to reach the GE before it really started to pour, or else she’d bring home soup and wallpaper paste instead of vegetables and flour. She was about to duck under the passageway when an imp in a top hat crashed into her, screeching squeakily as it collided.

“Sorry, guv!” the imp chirped. “Figured ya’d dodge me.”

“Zimberfizz,” Teiran greeted. “What are you doing outside of Soul Wars? I haven’t any time for a round, I’m afraid.”

“No need, miz. Place’s empty as a drunk cat’s bladder. I need ya to take a butcher’s at sumfin.’”

“What?”

“Soul Obelisk is actin’ off. Can ya take a sniff at it?”

She glanced back at the list. She knew she should turn the imp down, but something about the whole thing felt… odd. It had been a quiet month, making this the prime time for catastrophe. 

The rain came down harder, striking her cavalier with several sharp splashes, and the smell of old burnt earth began to rise from the direction of the Wilderness.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll give it a go.”

“Thanks, guv. Shouldn’t take too mucha yer Harry.”

“Er… Sure. whatever you say.”

Zimberfizz led her back towards the Soul Wars portal, the other side of which was blessedly free of rain, and pointed to the small tent that had once belonged to Nomad.

“You’ll want to ‘ave a look around the throne room,” he said. “If there’s anyfin’ funny, it’d be in there.”

Teiran ducked under the tent flap and opened the trapdoor underneath the straw bedding. As she did, she felt her hair raise and frizz despite its dampness, and tasted copper in her mouth. 

“Hmmm.” She muttered a prayer for  _ Protect from Magic _ before descending the ladder, the imp following after her. 

The frizz and the coppery taste only became stronger as she went lower; by the time her feet hit the floor, she could almost see the haze and feel the sticky static of enchantment on her fingertips. 

“Wizard stuff,” she muttered. “You don’t suppose the obelisk is broken?”

The imp shook its head. “Ain’t anyfin I’m used ta.”

“Lovely. I suppose it’d be too simple for it to be a leak in the pipes…”

The throne room had changed little since she’d last seen it; the scorch marks of Nomad’s wayward spells still adorned the walls, as did the cracks and slashes in the ground where she’d missed striking him. Fighting Nomad wasn’t something she’d readily forget, even if it had been nearly half a year. In retrospect, she probably should have been a little more fastidious about checking the body. 

As she took a step forward, something crunched under her boots. She paused, and lifted her foot away, revealing a small, crushed bunch of bluish shards.

“Eh?” She picked up one of the broken crystals, rolling it between her fingers. “Not elven, that’s for sure…”  _ Is it Sliske trying to plant a trap? No, these aren’t even trying to look like they came from Tirannwn… _

She dropped the crystal shard back on the ground, where it landed with a faint  _ tink _ , and scanned the room again. 

“Ey, guv!” Zimberfizz said. “Will ya look at the throne? It’s drippin’ like a rag. Don’t think it’s supposed to do that.”

Teiran looked over to the seat, ostentatious as it always had been. The machinery that surrounded it had fallen silent, thankfully, but something about it still felt off. The haze of magic in the room seemed to radiate from it. As she looked closer, she could see a puddle of dark liquid by its front.

She walked over to the throne and bent down, scrutinizing the goo. There was a faint stench to it; cold and almost rotten. She’d smelled it before — in deep rooms within pyramids, where the pharaohs’ bodies were kept, and in the catacombs of Mort’ton, where the restless shades quavered and clawed within their graves…

Against her better judgement and sense of hygiene, she reached towards the puddle and swiped her finger through.

She regretted it instantly. It was like liquid ice, biting at her hand with a burning frigidity. She shivered; the chamber they were in was echoing, all of a sudden, with hollow shrieks that resonated throughout. Her body was seized with the sensation of cold, and…  _ something _ pulling, pulling, pulling her closer…

She shook the slime off her fingers with disgust. 

“Eurgh,” she recoiled. “What in the Abyss was  _ that _ all about?”

“Beats me, guv,” Zimberfizz said. “Got ta say, you ‘ad a real funny look on yer face when ya touched it.”

“You didn’t hear the —?” She looked around the throne room, which was empty and silent as ever; so was the imp’s expression. 

“Hmm. I suppose not,” she said, staring back at the dark goo.  _ Rule #210, Teiran, _ she thought to herself.  _ Don’t touch the wossname. Even if you’re rubbish at following it, it seems. _

She looked at the throne, where the strange haze was still centered. The goo seemed to be creeping up from under the seat, silently and slimily oozing down the sides.

“You haven’t done anything to the throne, have you?” she asked Zimberfizz. 

The imp shook his head. “Ain’t laid a claw on it, guv.”

She reached towards the throne, but thought better of it. Instead, she unsheathed her dragon longsword and, leaning as far forward as she could without tipping over, wodged it under the stone slab from which the ooze was dripping. Then, carefully, she levered it upwards.

The seat shifted, and a torrent of slime bubbled up from underneath. 

“Yech,” Teiran gagged. “Well, we know the source of it, at least.”

She pulled back the sword, making a face as it dripped. “I hope this stuff doesn’t stain…”

“Guv? D’ya reckon it’s supposed to be hissing like that?”

Teiran looked back to the throne. The underside of the slab she’d jostled was now shaking quite viciously, as smoke began to pour out alongside the ooze.

“Zimberfizz,” she said urgently, as she backed away. “I think right now would be a really damn good time to r—”

_ BOOM. _

* * *

When the smoke cleared, Teiran found herself on her back, looking up at a considerably more Gothic ceiling than what was in Nomad’s throne room. 

“I still don’t believe it,” she heard a voice bark. “My domain! My fortress! I can hear their screams, Harold. We have to put a stop to this.”

“I’m well aware,” a different, familiar voice replied. “The balance between the realms has been severely disrupted. As have, I fear, the barriers…”

Teiran sat up. Death and Icthlarin were standing behind Death’s desk, where a large, old-looking map was spread out before them. 

“Is this a group intervention?” Teiran said, getting to her feet. “Where did Zimberfizz go?”

The two looked up. 

“Teiran,” Death greeted, his voice taking an upward turn. “Your timing is rather serendipitous.”

“I’m going to assume this has something to do with the corpse-goo leaking out of Nomad’s loveseat?”

Icthlarin sniffed. “I thought I caught a whiff of Underworld about you…”

“Underworld?”

“Where all souls reside,” Death said. “Or, perhaps, were residing. Nomad has somehow managed to gain access there, it seems. And he’s taken the Soul Obelisk with him.”

Teiran’s stomach lurched. “What is he trying to do?”

Icthlarin bared his teeth. “I don’t know,” he growled. “What we do know is that he’s using the souls of the dead for… something.”

“Shredding them, to be more accurate,” Death said, his sonorous voice even lower than usual. “Their cries over the Noumenon… even here, I can detect them.”

Teiran felt a chill run up her spine, and her insides unceremoniously churned with low-grade nausea. 

“How many?” she said, struggling to keep her tone even. 

“I don’t know,” Icthlarin said. “Thousands, maybe. The number grows with every moment.”

She took a breath, shallow and shuddering. “What do we do?”

“Stop him,” Death said. “In whatever capacity we can. Nomad has evaded my grasp before, and I cannot let it happen again. Especially in light of these developments.”

“Fine by me,” she said, grabbing the handle of her weapon. “How are we going to get to him?”

“We must go to the Underworld,” Icthlarin said grimly. “Normally, such a feat would not be feasible for you and Harold. But in this case, Nomad has managed to weaken the veil between the two.” 

Teiran wasn’t paying attention. Instead, her eyes were on her hands, as she expended most of her willpower getting them not to shake.

“So we are going down there,” she said, slowly, her thoughts racing through her head.  _ Don’t hope, _ she thought.  _ It would be too much to think… _

“Teiran,” Death said. “I don’t know what — or who — we may encounter. The Underworld is a vast place, and I cannot guarantee that you will find who you seek. Time is of the essence here, and it is imperative that you focus on your mission. Understand?”

Slowly, she nodded.

Ictharlin flicked his ears back unhappily. “It will be dangerous. Nomad will be more powerful than the last time you encountered him, no doubt —”

“Icthlarin,” Teiran said, her voice sharp and quiet. “The souls. Can they be saved?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then we haven’t time to waste.” She unhitched her whip, her knuckles almost white as she held it. 

“Where do we go?”

Death reached into his robe and, appropriately enough, produced a heavy-looking skeleton key. 

He turned towards the door behind his desk, and slid it into the lock with a heavy clunk. 

It clicked, and the room turned cold. The air felt icier — deeper, almost — and she smelled the faint, tombish stench of the slime from Nomad’s throne. 

Death opened the door. Instead of mops and cobwebs, mist spilled out, rolling onto the office floor. She couldn’t make out what was on the other side through the gloom and the fog, though she could hear the faint rush of running water beyond.

She took a breath, filling her lungs with the dead, damp air.

“Right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I wanted to say a quick and massive THANK YOU to everyone who voted for me in the Golden Gnomes! It was a huge surprise and honor to be make it to the finals, and I'm running against some truly talented artists. Hopefully this will open the door to future fanfic nominations, or even a separate category for writing :D
> 
> If you think this work is worthy, please consider voting for me once again! As always, thank you so much for your readership, kudos, and comments <3


	57. Reunion

The underworld was… cold. That was the first thing that Teiran noticed. It was cool and damp; strange shapes loomed in the gloom, and probably did other sinister things that ended in -oom. 

She could see a wide bridge through the purplish mists, stretching ahead to a gated archway, now closed. Far below it she saw the source of the watery noises — a vast river, flowing lazily underneath off to parts unknown. 

“ _ This _ is where you send the souls of the dead?” she said, shivering against the cold that rapidly encroached on her armour. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting a party, but this is all rather… grim.”

“The place you see before you is merely liminal,” Death said. “An in-between, before Icthlarin escorts a soul to their appropriate afterlife.”

Teiran was about to ask another question when a piercing scream rang throughout the cavern. It drilled into her ears, making her stomach lurch; it was high and painful, and sounded like thousands of voices shrieking all at once.

Teiran instinctively clamped her hands over her ears, though it did little to block the horrendous sound. She could feel it in her bones, rattling them with a painful frequency. The ground shook and rumbled, and through the cacophony, she could hear the distant watery splashes of dislodged rocks falling into the river. 

The cry continued for what seemed like forever before it subsided, leaving the cavern as quiet as before. Even then, her head rang, deafening even the sound of the river.

“What the hell,” she said, removing her hands from her ears, “situationally-appropriate locations aside, was  _ that _ ?”

“Agony,” Ictharlin said, his voice shaking. The demigod had been rattled by the scream as well; his hair was raised, and his ears were flat against his head. “The souls... “ He shuddered. “I do not know what Nomad is doing to them. Whatever it is…”

He trailed off. “He must be stopped.”

“What’s the plan?” Teiran said, stepping towards the bridge. “You said he’s in your fortress, right?”

“Barricaded in,” Icthlarin said. “Nomad… he’s not working alone. I don’t know who he’s allied himself with, but they seem to have military training. The barricade on the door will take more power than we alone can provide.”

“So what? We rally the dead?”

“Precisely,” Death said. “The barriers between the afterlives have been weakened. What was once not traversable can now be journeyed to.” 

He looked out over the river, towards the arch. “The Soul Obelisk has already stripped some afterlives bare. Only the strongest spirits will remain; and, even then, it will be only a matter of time before they are consumed. Find those left and send them here, and we may have a chance.”

She nodded. “Got it.”

“There’s a boat down by the river banks,” Icthlarin said. “It should take you to the afterlives that remain whole.”

“Ok.” Without another word, she headed towards the boat, her breath fogging in the chilly air of the underground. When she found the tiny vessel, she boarded it, hefted the oars with numb fingers, and began to row.

* * *

Teiran wasn’t entirely sure what she expected to find as she rowed along, watching the bridge in front of her disappear into the mists. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to find; or, even if she did know, if she would find it. 

_ Maybe… _

No. She squashed that word and concept from her thoughts almost as quickly as it rose. She had a job to focus on — and she couldn’t be distracted. The minute she lost her head, it would be off the tightwire and into the void. She wouldn’t even think about it.

_ Find other afterlives. Do it quickly. Fight Nomad and whatever cronies he’s brought with them. Then… _

_ Focus. Job on hand. Don’t even hope. _

She rowed for what felt like some time, with only the splashes of her oars hitting the water to keep her company. She went in no particular direction as she made her way over the water. The river had grown so wide that she couldn’t see the walls — only mist, creeping over the surface and obscuring anything farther than a few yards.

Occasionally, she’d see the soft flash of light, or what looked like a glowing wisp pass her by, only for it to disappear half a moment later. 

After a time, she stopped for a rest, her arms burning with exhaustion from all the rowing. She looked around the cavern, looking for a hint of anything besides darkness and river. 

“Hello!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the cave walls. “Is there anyone around here?”

Silence replied. 

_ Damn. Did Nomad clear this place out completely?  _ she pondered.  _ Or is the underworld that unpopulated? _

A thought occurred to her. She pulled out a set of runes from her bag and, concentrating fiercely, cast  _ Contact. _

The spell fizzled and died in her hands. She tried again a second time, with similar results.  _ Bugger. No reception, I suppose... _

Suddenly, she heard a sound, far off to the right. It was faint, but it sounded like shouting — human shouting. 

She grabbed the oars and rowed frantically in the direction of the sound. The boat cut through the mist; as she grew closer, she noticed the scenery around her was getting brighter.

She rowed faster. The water turned clearer, and, for the first time since she’d descended to the underworld, she felt warmth on her skin. The smell of saltwater filled her nose as the world became ever-lighter.

She blinked, squinting up at the that had suddenly appeared above her. “Eh?”

The boat hit solid ground, crunching into a beach that hadn’t been there before. Teiran jerked forward, grabbing the sides of the boat.

“What the…?”

It was an island. A smallish one, but an island nonetheless. There were a few palm trees on it, swaying in the ocean breeze, and a half-dozen small shacks scattered throughout. Waves lapped at the shore, while an unseen seagull cried overhead.

“Huh,” Teiran said, stepping out of the boat. “So this is an afterlife. If I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t think that I’m in the underworld…”

A shout, this time much louder and closer, interrupted her thoughts. It was coming from the direction of one of the shacks, accompanied by a frantic scrabbling. 

Teiran unsheathed her off-hand sword and crept closer to the hut, thankful for the sand that muffled her footsteps. As she approached, she heard the door begin to rattle, and the handle slowly turned. 

Some unnamed instinct within her told her to hide. Against her better judgement and the itch for a fight, she followed it. Teiran ducked behind a palm tree just as the door slammed open, revealing the hut’s occupants. 

The first figure to emerge nearly blinded her, the sun reflecting off of it with a brilliant, blue-green glow. Teiran shielded her eyes, and the figure stepped into the shadow of a palm, giving her a better look. 

There was  _ probably _ a human in there, she conceded, under all the crystal growths. Its face was nearly completely covered by a helm of blue glass, leaving everything above its mouth exposed. What she’d initially taken for a sword in its left hand was a crystal protrusion growing out of its arm, spikelike and vicious. Similar growths covered its arms and legs, the crystalline facets glittering in the sun as the creature moved.

_What in Gielinor is_ that? she thought, desperately hoping the palm was adequate cover. _It looks like a sugar candy experiment gone wrong…_

Another figure emerged from the hut, similarly crystalline to the first; in fact, this was even moreso, its bottom half consumed by bright blue rock, leaving it with no legs. It hovered over the sand, scattering blue dots of light over the beach. It gripped the collar of a man, dragged from the hut. 

Teiran looked closer at the prone body. “Cabin Boy Jenkins?” she whispered. The former sailor seemed to be unconscious, laying limp against the soft sand as the crystal…  _ thing _ carried him. 

The creature turned to its companion. “This is the last soul upon this island,  _ gladius, _ ” it said. Its voice was feminine. Ish. But it sounded  _ wrong. _ Metallic. Crackling. Like it was speaking through a steel tube. 

The first figure nodded. “The other areas have been inspected.”

“Then we are to take this one back to the base. Are there any places that remain unsearched?”

“Negative. There has been some resistance.”

“Futile,” the second figure said. “Not worth our time. We have wasted enough with the disruption to Gielinor as it is. We will take this asset back for processing, and await new orders.”

The first figure nodded. With a flash of blue, the crystal monstrosities and the man vanished, leaving the island empty.

_ Shit. _ Teiran emerged from her hiding place and scanned the area. 

“Hello!” She called out, her voice echoing over the ocean. Nothing replied.

It didn’t take her long to search the rest of the huts, which were similarly looted — their doors hanging wide open and swaying in the breeze, devoid of any occupants.

_ Shit. Shit. Shit _ . Whatever those things were had been right about picking the area clean; and, from the sound of it, she wouldn’t have much of a chance anywhere else. 

_ I have to get this to Death and Icthlarin. _ She headed back to the boat as quickly as she could, grabbing the oars and rowing away from the island. The afterlife, along with its warmth and sunshine, disappeared behind her, leaving her to the gloom and damp of the river.

_ Damnit! _ She thought, clenching her teeth _ I may be too late already… _

As she rowed, she noticed one of the wisps approaching the vessel. Instead of fading away like the others before had, however, it stayed, hovering over the seat opposite to her. 

Teiran scrutinized it. “You’d better not be one of those crystally buggers I saw back there,” she said threateningly. “I’ll have you know that I’m looking for rockery ornaments.”

The wisp flickered. “Far from it,” it said. The voice — it was a woman’s. And familiar…

Teiran stopped rowing. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

Teiran squinted, racking her brain. “I… I know you. You’re…”

The orb flickered again, replaced with a robed woman sitting on the boat bench. Though the hood concealed her face, it was recognizably conspicuous in any case.

“Idria?!” Teiran let go of the oars. “I… what are you doing here?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Idria said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in an afterlife?”

“I was,” Idria said, with a touch of sadness. “We Armadyleans have our own afterlife. Multi-faceted, and indescribable.” She looked off wistfully across the river, before turning back to Teiran. “However, it was torn asunder when that… monster came down here with that twisted obeliesk. It’s been pulling souls towards it, even as they flee. Those who manage to escape…”

“The rockheads dragged them out,” Teiran said, still bewildered. “But you got away?”

“Only barely.”

“Do you know what they are?” she asked. “They seem to be working for Nomad.”

Idria shook her head. “Only that they call themselves the Ascended. And they’re rather hard to kill.”

“Hmmm. What else is news?” Teiran muttered. “Are there any other souls around?”

“A spare few. I can take you to them.”

Teiran breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank gods… where are they?”

“Northwest from here,” Idria said, pointing. “Ah, as much as a northwest there can be down here. I’ll direct you.”

Teiran began to row again, readjusting the boat’s path as the guardian instructed her. As she settled into a steady rhythm, she tried to sort through the million questions jostling for attention in her thoughts.

“So. Um. Afterlife,” she said. “It’s. Er. Nice. I hope?”

“It is.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

She continued to row, letting the splashing water fill the awkward silence.

“Idria,” she said. “Look, I’m sorry —”

“Teiran. Please. Don't apologize.” Idria smiled, a little sadly. “My death… it was my own doing. It was my naivety, thinking that we could bargain with the dragonkin…”

“But I could’ve —”

“What’s done is done,” Idria said. “Please. I regret my actions. But they cannot be changed.” She sighed. “Please don’t pity the dead. We have found our own peace. Pity the ones we have left behind.”

Teiran didn’t reply at first, and simply continued rowing, her head clouded with thoughts.

“A lot’s changed,” she said, quietly. “Guthix—”

“I know,” Idria said. “Every soul in the Underworld felt it. A wave of anima — the most pain I’ve felt since dying.”

“The gods have come back,” Teiran said. “Armadyl included.”

Idria nodded slowly. “Have you… met him?”

“A couple of times, yeah.”

“Tell me,” Idria said carefully. “Lord Armadyl… what is it like to behold him?”

Teiran sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Big,” she said. “Feathery. He squawks when he laughs.”

“Ah—” Idria said, her eyes widening in surprise. “Erm… yes. That’s to be expected.”

“He seemed rather sad,” Teiran said. “At least, he didn’t seem to be happy about Guthix dying. Or coming back to Gielinor.”

Idria nodded. “That is… also to be expected. It’s written that he was the only one of the gods to voluntarily leave Gielinor, after the Aviansie were destroyed in an attack from Zamorak.”

Teiran’s mind flashed back to a certain clearing, and how Armadyl had stood far more proudly than when she met him at his encampment. And how desperately he’d flown towards the Stone of Jas as Zamorak had made his move…

“How is everyone up there?” Idria asked, interrupting her thoughts. “Thaerisk? Sir Tiffy? Akrisae?”

“Thaerisk is fine,” Teiran said. “He got rather rattled by Guthix’s death, but you know him, he doesn’t take things sitting down. Sir Tiffy’s well, he hasn’t changed a bit, the cunning old codger. Akrisae….”

She winced, trying to find the right words. “It was right after you... Died,” she said. “Sliske, the mahjarrat… he was trying to turn me into a wight. He flung the spell at me, and Akrisae… He blocked it. With himself.”

“So Akrisae…?”

“Yeah. There’s not anything left of him, I’m afraid,” she sighed. “I’ve tried talking to him.”

Idria’s expression saddened. “That’s terrible. I hope there’s some way to save him.”

_ Killing Sliske,  _ Teiran thought. “I’m working on it, trust me.”

The river was beginning to get lighter, much like with the island before. However, the sun was a little gloomier; it didn’t smell of salt, of earth, and vegetation. 

Teiran squinted at the horizon. Something large loomed overhead; white, mountainous.

As she got closer, she could see the shapes of houses — ones covered with, no,  _ made _ out of vines.

“This is…” She took in the surroundings. “Taverley?”

The boat lurched to a stop, grounding on the bank of what looked to be the mill river, just by the drudic grove and the altar to Guthix.

Teiran stepped out of the boat. The little town was just as it was in Gielinor; every tree and every house, down to the distant snow on White Wolf Mountain to the west.

Something moved in the corner of her eye. She looked to the grove, and could see a figure in flaxen white kneeling before the altar.

“Hey!” Teiran called out. “Are you one of the dead? I’m here to help—”

The figure jolted, looking up and darting away at the sound of her voice.

“Oi, wait!” Teiran shouted, running after the figure. “Look, I’m not one of those crystal things!” By the time she reached the altar, the figure was gone. 

Idria caught up to her. “What were you chasing after?”

“Ah, some druid,” Teiran said. “Must’ve been spooked…”

Idria froze. “Teiran,” she whispered urgently. “They’re here.”

Teiran tensed. “Where?”

“To the north,” Idria whispered. “I can sense them. Their anima… it’s all  _ wrong _ …”

Teiran scanned the horizon, watching for movement. “You hide, ok? Don’t go near them,” she said urgently. “I’ll try to draw them off. Where they are, there’s probably other souls. I can handle them on my own.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fairly.” Teiran cracked her knuckles. “When all this is said and done, I might even get some crystal dinnerware out of this.”

“Very well,” Idria nodded. “I’ll find you again when they’re gone. Good luck.” With that, she vanished, flickering away into the landscape. 

Teiran, quietly as she could, unhitched her whip and her sword and darted ahead, skidding to a stop by the Heroes’ Guild and pressing herself to the wall. She glanced around the corner, towards the squat houses of Burthorpe.

Three Ascended were loitering in the path between buildings. Two of them looked similar to the sword-wielding monster from the island. The third was more hunched over, almost doglike, and so heavily encrusted with crystal that she couldn’t even see the flesh it grew on.

She sized up the trio.  _ Ok, if I take on the one on the right and draw him off the other two… that armour probably bounces magic, so I’ll have to go with ranged… if I can get to the roof of the guild, then I can pick them off… _

A shout from behind her interrupted her thoughts. An Ascended, gliding silently over the ground, had snuck up from behind. The other three turned their heads towards her, and the doglike one let out a metallic growl.

_ Ok, Plan B, _ Teiran thought, backing away from the wall.  _ Run like hell. _

She dashed away just as a bluish, crystalline spell struck the wall where she’d been hiding, taking out a chunk of rock where it hit. 

_ Shit. _ She ran towards White Wolf Mountain, trading her whip for a crossbow as she ran. Spells sailed by her, and she fired the crossbow behind her. She didn’t see it strike, but heard a faint  _ tink _ as it bounced off the monster’s crystal armour.

_ Where to run, where to run…? _ As she bolted towards the mountain, she spotted a certain, grey, bulky building towards her right. 

_ Warrior’s Guild. That’ll be fortified enough.  _

Another spell narrowly missed her — from its angle, she could tell it was getting closer.  _ C’mon, c’mon… _

She halfway crashed into the oaken door as she reached it, scrabbling for the handles and pulling on them with all her might. 

The door didn’t budge.  _ Fuck. _

She turned around. One of the bladed Ascended had caught up to her, and was charging another blue spell in its hand.

Teiran fired her crossbow at it. Though the bolt crackled with activated enchantment, it pinged harmlessly off the monster’s crystal helm.

_ Fuck! _ She glanced to her left and right — the other Ascended were rapidly closing in. The door behind her back was still unmoving. No escape routes. 

_ Well, at least I’ll end up in Death’s office. I can probably find my way back here eventually… _

“Psst.” A voice floated down from above, distant and familiar. “Ah, you might want to move a nudge to the right.”

Teiran’s eyes widened. Without another thought, she complied. 

She heard a shifting, rocky rumbling above her. The Ascended looked up, just in time for a rather heavy statue to land on it.

The Ascended groaned under the rock, its only visible limb twitching. Teiran looked skyward, trying to discern where the rogue statue had come from. 

As she did, the door behind her creaked open, and she felt a hand snatch her collar, pulling her inside.

“Waaaagh!” She struggled against the unseen assailant, her fist managing to strike the underside of a jaw. Whoever it was that grabbed her released their grip, and she landed on the hard stone floor of the guild lobby. 

She looked up. A giant of a man towered above her, rubbing his jaw with a pained expression.

“Ey, lady,” he said. “You’ve got lot stronger. Punch hurt Ghommal good.”

“Ghommal?” She stood up, barely believing her eyes.

“Ja, is me. Ooof!” The hug she gave him knocked the breath out of the giant, and he patted her on the head. “You dead too, eh? How it happen?”

“Er, no,” she said, releasing him. “Look, it’s a long story. Were you the one who threw that statue down?”

“No. Ghommal guard door. Like always.”

“Then who…?” Hearing footsteps, she looked over to the hallway to the stairwell. A man, sauntering down the hall and carrying a massive axe slung over his green skillcape with the ease of a sack of potatoes, grinned at her.

“Ah,” he said. “That would be me. I had a rather good shot with that one, I’ll say.”

“Sloane!” Teiran yelled, nearly laughing with relief. “You two have been holed up in here the whole time?”

“Us and Turael,” Sloane said. “He’s taking potshots off the ramparts. Only one of us who can snag a proper hit on any of those clots.”

She leaned against a pillar, suddenly dizzy. “Gods,” she said. “It’s good to see you all again… it’s been so long.”

Ghommal nodded. “Has been. What go on upstairs?”

“Upstairs…? Oh. A lot, to say the least.” She sighed. “Lucien’s dead. Not by my doing, unfortunately. Guthix… you probably know. Everything’s gone to hell, more or less.”

She took a breath, and released it. “It’s just you three down here?” She asked, dreading the answer. “Nobody else that you’d… know?”

Sloane shook his head. “The blue rocky buggers dragged off most of the others around here. Some of the old guards put up a fight, but they were dragged off some time ago. We’ve been battening down ever since. Hate to play the defensive, but the fellows outside are rather hard to take one-on-one.”

“Surely there aren’t more members of the Warrior’s Guild, though?” 

Sloane shrugged. “Sure, before all this nonsense. But they’ve gone and moved on.”

“Moved on?”

“It’s a bit hard to explain,” Sloane said. “This spot… it’s like a limbo, I suppose? A waiting room, I guess. We’re all hanging on for someone back in the other place, you know? Ghommal and I are waiting for the rest of the old guard — Lilly, Jimmy, Kamfreena, the rest.”

Ghommal nodded. “Turael, he wait for Spria.”

“What happens when you… move on?”

Sloane shrugged again. “A better afterlife? I’m not really sure. We’ve had a few folks come here and almost immediately pass on — a couple of guards, some townsfolk, this one blonde all geared up in some of the most expensive armour I’ve seen — but we don’t know where they go.”

“It probably nice,” Ghommal said. “But being here nice too. It home.”

“Yeah.” Teiran said, slowly. “Home.”

She took a deep breath. “The other souls,” she said. “They’re being stolen by a bloke named Nomad. The Ascended — those crystally monsters — are working for him. I don’t think I can take them alone.”

She paused, and looked down. “Will you help me? Again?” she said. “I know the last time I asked you… It didn’t turn out so well. And I’m truly sorry for that. But I need your help if I’m going to be able to take down this… this _monster_.”

She felt a hand land on her shoulder, and looked up. 

Sloane grinned. “You had us at ‘stolen souls,’ mate. Of course we’ll help you.”

Ghommal nodded. “Ghommal no like crystal monsters. They leave dent in door. Mean Ghommal can no stand outside door.”

Teiran breathed a sigh of relief. “Gods, thank you…” She looked to the door, which was firmly closed and barred shut. “Can you get to the bridge to Icthlarin’s fortress without being spotted?”

Sloane nodded. “Ghommal and I will gear up. Turael’s upstairs — you’d best fetch him. He’d have our hides if we left him out of this.”

“Right.” She headed upstairs, past the eerily silent rooms towards the hatch to the roof, from which a rope ladder dangled. 

When she had reached the roof, she could see Turael lying prone, a crossbow on his shoulder as he watched the one remaining Ascended still standing. Its companion lay dead next to it, its body full of crossbow bolts. 

“Not a word,” he said, as she approached. “Can’t throw off my track.”

She nodded silently. Turael took careful aim towards the doglike Ascended, which was crawling aimlessly around the banker’s platform, and fired. 

The bolt struck the creature’s neck with a fleshy thud. It shuddered and collapsed, and lay still. 

Teiran grinned. “Nice shot.”

“Thanks.” The slayer master stood, brushing off the front of his armour. “It’s been some time since I’ve had anything proper to kill. Ha! No more aching knees. No more creaky back. And to think I was going to retire and spend my days growing grapes…”

He looked over to her. “You’re looking well.”

“Thank you.”

“How’s Spria?” 

The question caught Teiran off-guard, though she was halfway expecting it. “She’s alright,” Teiran said. “She took over for you. Stands in the same spot and everything, handing out blessed hatchets and cave slime assignments. She seems happy.”

“That’s good to hear,” Turael said with a grin. “Eh, I knew she’d come out alright. Just like her mum, tough as nails.”

“She misses you,” Teiran said. “She talks about you a lot.”

Turael’s expression softened. “That sounds like her, looking up to her old man.”

“Yeah.” She looked out over Burthorpe — or, at least, the Underworld’s version of Burthorpe, with its distant mists and strange grey sky. 

“So,” Turael said. “Considering how you end up being the center of these sorts of things, and since you don’t look particularly dead, I reckon you’re here to recruit me to stop whatever’s sending those rocky blokes in?”

Teiran nodded. “Are you up for it?”

“Ha! As ever.” He knocked another bolt on his crossbow, and picked up the halberd next to him. “One last adventure.”

“Yeah,” Teiran said, cracking a smile. “One last adventure.”


	58. Legion

After being briefed in the art of killing Ascension members by Turael — “Aim for the soft bits between the crystal armour, and use heavier bolts; enchanted stuff they seem to have a resistance to” — and saying goodbye to the other warriors, Teiran headed back to the boat where Idria was waiting. The guardian was scanning the horizon anxiously, eyes narrowed and body tense.

“It’s safe, don’t worry,” Teiran said, sitting down on the boat. “The others have picked off any Ascended around here. Shall we head back to the bridge?”

“There’s another. Duradel,” Idria said. “He’s not far.”

“Hmm.” Teiran pushed the boat off the banks of Taverley and began to row, the afterlife slowly fading into darkness behind her. “We’re getting the band back together, it seems.”

“It would make sense that they managed to resist the obelisk and the Ascended,” Idria said. “They were the strongest warriors in RuneScape at the time. It’s only natural that their souls are strong as well.”

“Mmm,” Teiran said, her thoughts elsewhere. “Have you found anyone else? Besides Duradel?” 

Idria shook her head. “No.” 

She saw Teiran’s expression, and tried to give her a reassuring look. “I’ve been looking for him,” she said, softly. “Trust me. I’ve had no luck so far.”

Teiran sighed, trying to focus on her rowing. “One thing at a time,” she said. “I’m just glad we’ve found Sloane and the others so far.”  _ I’m sure he’s somewhere… Idria will find him. It’s only a matter of time. _

She did her best to brush these thoughts to the side, and instead, continued to row over the cold, dark river.

* * *

_ This _ place had the saltwater smell, yes, but it was empathetically overpowered by the damp, vegetative aroma of jungle, dense and impenetrable-looking from the coast.

Teiran landed the boat, eyes sharp for any more Ascended. There were footprints in the sand, deep and heavy-looking, with several grooves where something had dragged itself along. 

“Hmmm.” She counted half a dozen at least, not accounting for the ones that glided. All led towards the jungle.

“You might want to head back to the bridge,” she said to Idria. “I’ll meet you there in an hour.”  _ Or sooner, if I run into these blokes... _

Idria nodded, and vanished. Teiran stepped out of the boat, scanning the horizon for any unexpected visitors, and unhooked a topaz-bladed machete from her toolbelt. 

The Ascended had already done a fair amount of work for her, having left several smouldering holes in the vegetation. She stepped through them, machete aloft, and listened. 

The jungle… was quiet. Too quiet. No birds sang, no creatures stirred. Nothing rustled or moved, save where she clumsily stepped through the undergrowth. The silence put her on edge, her ears almost ringing in anticipation of a sound.

_ The Ascended weren’t subtle coming in here, by the looks of it, _ she thought.  _ Why are laying low now? Am I walking into an ambush? _

Her foot struck something, and she looked down. A dead Ascended lay before her, its exposed flesh embedded with tiny, feathery darts. 

Teiran tensed — just in time for her to spot the blowpipe aimed at her neck, poking brazenly through the dense jungle cover

“Don’t move,” a voice behind the blowpipe said. “Are you here to try and capture me, as well?”

“Do I look like I have crystal growing out of my arse?” Teiran said. “It’s me, Duradel.”

“What, now?” The blowpipe retreated, and the jungle rustled for a moment before the slayer master emerged. When he saw her, he broke into a grin.

“So you’ve returned!” he said. “Are you here for any of the pitiful cavebugs remain in this place?" He kicked the dead Ascended at his feet. “I’m afraid I’ve robbed you of any quarry.”

“There'll be plenty to go around,” Teiran said. “I’m after whoever keeps sending them. Feeling up for it?”

“First out of the hut, then out of the jungle,” Duradel said. “And back into danger, where I thrive?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I don’t have much time to explain, but —”

Her words were cut off by Duradel clamping a hand over her mouth, his finger raised to his lips as he watched something towards the shore.

Teiran followed his gaze. Out on the beach an Ascended hovered. This one was different from all the others — it was strangely free of crystal growths, save for a heavy crown around its head, and the shards that floated behind it like a strange, broken pair of wings.

It seemed to be searching for something, slowly floating over the footprints and towards the jungle where she and Duradel were situated.

_ Shit. _ The Ascended was between them and the boat, and she wasn’t sure if she could outpace something that didn’t even use its feet.

She heard a silent  _ pfoot  _ from next to her, and a feathered blowdart sprouted in the Ascended’s neck. It looked up, its glowing blue eyes honing in on the source.

“Hmmm,” Duradel said. “Immune to poison, it seems. Or able to take the dosage of karambwan that it takes to kill the Shaikahan…”

Teiran pulled out her crossbow and nocked a weighted bolt, before taking aim and firing. 

The projectile struck the Ascended straight on in the chest — which did nothing to impede its steady approach.

Teiran reloaded and fired again, adding another bolt to the first and sending a streak of glowing blood trickling down the monster’s torso.

“Duradel,” she said, nocking another arrow. “I think we need a Plan B. One that involves running.”

“Hmmmm.” Duradel bent down and picked up something from the ground. “Or perhaps….”

He sent the object sailing in a wide arc, culminating in the rock colliding with the Ascended’s head with a sickening crack. It swayed mid-air, before sinking into the sand with a soft  _ thud. _

“Huh,” Teiran said, stepping out of the jungle. “Or that. That works, too.”

“The best slayer masters use the tools they have on hand,” Duradel said with a nod.

They both looked down at the Ascended, his crystal coronet bearing a crack where the rock had hit it. It was too much to hope that the strike had killed it — rather, Teiran suspected, it had been knocked out.

“Should we leave him on the beach?” she said, scrutinizing the body. Duradel shook his head.

“No, I’ve seen this one before. He seemed to be giving the other ones orders — perhaps he’s a general?”

“Hmm. Collateral, then. He probably knows something”

“I like your line of thinking.” Duradel fished around in the vegetation, and retrieved a length of jungle vine. The Ascended didn’t stir even as Duradel restrained him, and only let out a muffled groan as the slayer master slung him over his shoulder.

“Where to now?”

“The bridge near the entrance,” she said. “It might do for you to ride in the boat with me. If he wakes up, I want an extra set of hands.”

The ride back was mercifully quiet, with their hostage remaining unconscious at the bottom of the boat as it rocked. Duradel remained vigilant, watching the waters with a careful eye. Teiran saw that he’d retrieved his rune claws, and had them ready on his knuckles, glinting in the gloom of the river.

“Tell me, “ Duradel said, never taking his eyes off the water ahead. “How is —”

“Gielinor?” she said. “The world's gone to hell, the bloke that replaced you is an Amascut worshipper, and the price of everything inflated after some snotty princess started giving away big carts of money for no reason.”

“I was going to ask about Kuradal.”

“Oh. She’s well. I suppose. I haven’t seen her in some time.” Teiran paused. “She… wanted to get revenge for your death. On Lucien. But the Dragonkin stole the kill.”  _ Our kill. _

“She didn’t take that well, I assume.”

“No,” Teiran said. “Neither of us did.” She paused again. 

“She said that she failed you,” she added quietly.

Duradel sighed. “That sounds like my  _ chui _ . Always stubborn. Always pushing to be better. Always hard on herself.”

“She admired you.”

“She did.”

“The way she coped… It was angry.”  _ Like me. _

“That’s how she handles things,” Duradel said. “I wish I’d taught her better. That’s my only regret.” He cracked a sad smile. “She was trying to reunite her mother and me, for a time.”

Teiran raised an eyebrow. “She never mentioned that.”

“No. She tried to hide it from me.” He sighed again. “Safia and I… Had our differences. When we went our separate ways, Kuradal placed the blame on herself. She believed bringing us back together would rid her of her guilt.”

“And she failed?”

“Yes. I still love Safia. With all my heart. I still wait for her.” He looked back over to where they came, the faint outline of the island still slightly visible through the mist. “But that was not for Kuradal to resolve.”

He paused. “Reconciliation with oneself… it’s never simple. There is no one cure. There is no one thing, task or assignment that ends it. It comes from within, and that is messy. And that is something, I fear, that Kuradal never learned.”

Teiran didn’t reply, and simply kept rowing, if only to avoid the uncomfortable thoughts that were accumulating in her head. Silence abounded for some time, punctuated only by the sound of water and the occasional soft  _ thunk _ as the unconscious Ascended collided with the sides of the boat.

“Adventurer,” Duradel said, suddenly. “When you return, please do me a favor.”

“What is it?” 

“Tell Kuradal… she is not a failure. Not in any sense of the word. Tell her that her father is proud of her. Immeasurably. Always.”

Teiran nodded. “I will.”

The bridge was beginning to come into sight, and with it, the other warriors from Burthorpe. Teiran scanned the group, slightly disappointed to see only three figures — Sloane, Ghommal and Turael. 

_ We’ve got a good, solid cohort, _ she told herself, half-scolding.  _ Ones that can take down the crystal blokes. That’s the important thing. _

Duradel grabbed the Ascended, who was beginning to stir, from the boat, and headed towards the others. Death and Icthlarin were hunched over a war table, consulting what looked to be a spectral scale model of the fortress over the bridge.

“We’ve got a live one,” she said, pulling up a chair. Duradel unceremoniously dropped the hostage into it, securing the body with a bit of vine as it slumped forward.

“They call themselves The Ascended,” she said to Death. “Ring a bell?”

Icthlarin shook his head. Death’s expression, however, darkened.

“Ocellus,” he said. “And his wayward creations, it seems.”

“Who’s he?”

“A rogue Guardian of Guthix. One who, for all intents and purposes, is no longer part of our order,” Death said.

“Is he behind this, then?”

“As misguided as he is, I doubt it,” Death said. “However, it seems that you’ve captured one of their leaders. A  _ Legio _ , I believe.”

“Brilliant,” she said. “Now it’s down to getting him to spill.”

Sloane, having wandered over to see the spectacle, grinned, and hefted his axe. “That we can do.”

Death looked over the heavily-armed group. “I do not approve of this!” he protested.

Teiran rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, do you have any better ideas? I don’t think we have time to brew a cuppa and coerce him with that.”

Death crossed his arms. “Fine,” he said. “But only because these…  _ creatures _ threaten the balance of life and death.”

“Tickety-boo, then,” Teiran said. With that, she turned to the slumped-over Ascended in the chair and slapped him. 

It was like slapping a marble statue, in all honesty — she suppressed a wince as her hand came away, her fingers and palm stinging. However, it seemed to have the desired effect.

The Ascended stirred, blinking blearily as he took in the surroundings around him.

“You dare,” he said, his voice metallic and growling, “lay a hand on Legio Septimus, impudent female?”

“Oh, stuff a sock in it,” Teiran said. “Who are you? What are you doing with all the souls? Are you working with Nomad?”

The Ascended, now fully conscious, sneered at her. “You reek of mortality. Imperfection. Filth and flesh. Release me and cease your banalities, worm. I will tell you nothing.”

Teiran blinked. “Ghommal?”

“Ja?”

“Tear his arms off.”

The Legio paled. “P-perhaps w-we can work something out…?”

“That’s what I like to hear!” She pulled up a chair and sat in it, crossing her legs. “Here’s the deal. You tell me everything, and Ghommal won’t break all your fingers and use them to make a new set of windchimes. Sound good?”

Wordlessly, the Legio nodded. “W-we… we are the True Order of Ascension,” he stammered. “Beyond the need for petty gods — gods that know nothing of the people’s struggle.”

“Why are you taking souls from the Underworld?”

The Ascended swallowed. “The souls… their hopes, their dreams, their fears, their essences, their flaws… all those that came before from Gielinor. They will become the chosen...  _ Blessed _ . The foundation of a glorious new age.”

He paused, his eyes glittering. “A god… a god that truly understands the needs of the people… a Leviathan. A god that provides for us, is us. Gielinor.”

Teiran’s stomach twisted. “You don’t mean to say…?”

“Yes,” the Legio said, a slow, lunatic grin creeping up on his face. “Do you not see the light? Nomad, the messiah, the new World Guardian, approached us and showed us the way… the potential of the human soul. True ascension… a god made of the people. For the people. One that shall bring an end to strife and pain and pity. One that shall lead us to light.”

A scream, loud and piercing as before, rose from the fortress on the other side of the bridge. The dead heroes on the bridge doubled over in pain, their forms flickering and pale against the gloomy backdrop. Icthlarin’s eyes widened, and his ears flicked uneasily. 

The Legio grinned. “Do you hear that? He calls to us. Beckons. So long apart, we shall soon become a part of him… each and every one—”

The Ascended never finished his sentence, cut off by the butt of a dragon sword colliding with his head. The Legio slumped forward, once again unconscious, as Teiran backed away in horror. 

She turned to Death, who, despite his skeletal face, looked pale. 

“We’ve got to stop them,” Teiran said, her voice shaking. “If what he’s saying is right…”

“I am well aware,” Death said. “There is even less time to waste. We must begin the assault on the fortress now.”

Teiran looked across the bridge, towards the heavy doors that blocked the entrance on the other side. “Ok. What’s our plan of action?”

Turael scrutinized the structure. “Climbing would be out of the question,” he concluded. “Not enough crannies. And we’d have to forget about any weaponry.”

Duradel nodded. “We can’t go under, either,” he said. “We would be too weighed down in the water.”

She turned to Sloane. “Can we cut our way through?”

He evaluated the doors for a moment, before shaking his head. “No, not even with this beauty,” he said, tapping his axe. “It’d take us weeks.”

“Ghommal use head,” the giant said, nodding. 

“Ok,” Teiran said. “Let’s hear it then.”

“I just say. Ghommal use head.” He tapped the top of his skull. “Is very thick. Would get us through.”

Sloane patted him on the arm. “I think this door might be a touch too much for you, old friend.”

Teiran, however, was nodding. “No, no, he’s got a point,” she said. “We need to headbang our way in. Just not using any heads…”

She turned to Icthlarin. “Are there any trees around here? Big ones?”

Icthlarin nodded. “There is a side-dimension with a thicket. I can teleport you and the others there.”

“Fantastic.” She turned to the group. “Alright, boys. We’re building a ram.”

“How big?” Sloane asked. 

“As big as we can lift.”

Sloane grinned. “I like the way you think!” he said, gripping his axe. “Duradel, do you have any of that vine left?”

The assorted heroes began planning out the construct among themselves. Teiran was about to join them when she saw a light flicker near her, as Idria materialized.

“Adventurer,” she said. “I’ve found another surviving soul. One in an afterlife resembling Lumbridge, it seems.”

Teiran’s heart leapt. “Who?”

“Hazelmere,” Idria said. “Well, I think it is. He’s acting rather… strangely.”

“Strange how?”

“I think it would be better to see for yourself.”


	59. Yesteryear

The little town looked like it had two years ago. Old buildings, which she’d seen ravaged by the destruction of the battle and replaced, now stood unscarred. The Doomsayer’s box was unoccupied, and she could see the little clearing to the north where new adventurers would practice their combat on training dummies, before it had been replaced with the Combat Academy. 

It was an old Lumbridge, achingly familiar. Teiran could almost see herself about to dash from between the castle walls, tripping over her skirts with a bronze dagger in hand, off to test herself against some hapless goblin. 

It was quiet. No ducks quacked, no goblins squabbled, no chickens clucked and no birds sang. But if she closed her eyes, she could hear — dream, almost — of the nostalgic harmony. 

She sighed, savouring the peace, before climbing up the steep riverbanks and having a look around. Her gaze lingered on the empty bridge before she turned to the castle, grey and looming against the stormy sky of the Underworld.

“Hazelmere!” she called. “It’s me! Teiran! I’ve come to find you!”

Nothing replied. She crossed the bridge, watching for any sign of the gnome as she walked.

A flash of movement caught her eye, high over on the roof of the castle. She couldn’t make out what it was, even as she stepped closer. 

“Hmmm.” She fast-walked over to the castle, through the empty courtyard and up the stairs towards the top. When she emerged, the roof was deserted — save for a gnome, his back to hers, a grey-brown flat top hat on his head and leaning on a staff taller than him.

“Hazelmere!” Teiran cried, running towards the gnome. “Gods… is it really you?”

The gnome turned. His eyes widened, before a look of petulance crossed his face in a rapid turn.

“That's what I just said. Ah, well. I suppose it wouldn't make sense to you,” he said, shaking his head.

Teiran furrowed her eyebrows. “Er… what?”

His expression shifted again, quickly as a windsock in a storm. “Do you think it would suit me to move around?” he said. “I may be dead, but my old bones still creak. Make haste, human.”

“What?” Teiran said again, now thoroughly confused. “I'm trying to make haste. What are you talking about?”

Hazelmere shook his head and appeared to concentrate. His eyes cleared, and he sighed. 

“I'm unstuck in time,” he said, his voice heavy with tiredness. “A side-effect of my connection to the anima mundi, unfortunately. A part of me is in the past. Another is in the future. I seem to be scattered around this place — you will have to find me.”

“Ok,” Teiran said. “If it’s just around here, it shouldn’t take too long. This is all rather confusing, but I’ll do my best.”

His expression changed again, back to one of petulance. “Well, who would you think it is?" He said testily. "I don't look like the giant who guards the door at the Warrior's Guild, now do I?”

“No, you don’t. Bugger. I think you… switched back again, or whatever. I’ll go and find the other… yous, ok? Do you know where they might be?”

“Hmm. Sardonic as ever, human.”

She gave him a hard look. “I don’t know if that was past you, present you, or future you,” she said. “But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Stay put, ok? I’ll be back soon.”

Hazelmere scrutinized her for a moment. “Interesting that he chose you," he said carefully. "I suppose he had his reasons."

“I…” She paused. “Oh, I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”

She left Hazelmere on the roof and made her way through the castle, checking each of the empty rooms as she went. Finding nothing, she made her way out to the main village, trying to ascertain as to where a chronologically confused gnome would choose to loiter.

“Hmmm,” she mumbled. “Church? No, he wouldn’t go for that, it’d be too religious. Not the graveyard…”

She ended up taking the systematic approach, bursting into every building left unlocked (and a few that weren’t). She was starting to get impatient when she slammed open the door to Bob’s Brilliant Axes, and nearly jumped when she saw a gnome — identical to the one on the roof — sitting on the sales counter, kicking his knees impatiently. 

“ _ Finally _ ,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Ok, which one are you?”

“I’m not sure,” Hazelmere said. “One should be in the axe store, I think. The other is behind the castle.”

She mentally backtracked to the conversation on the roof, and put two and two together. “Ok. I think you’re in the past.”

“Oh, and you think  _ this _ is confusing?" he snapped. "You haven't been temporally muddled for the last two years!"

“Damn. That’s a headache and a half.” She looked over to the castle. “Er, the other…  _ you _ is on the roof. Can you make your way there?”

The gnome nodded, and vanished. Teiran let out a sigh of relief.

“Well, that makes my job easier.” She made her way around the castle walls, unfazed by the sheer drop that made up the apparent area limit around the afterlife. 

The future Hazelmere was leaning against the castle’s walls, staring out to the misty void beyond. 

“Hello,” she said. “I think I’ve found the last one of you.”

“Hmmm,” he said, simply, turning and looking her up and down. “You're brimming with anima, girl. And something else. Older. What in Gielinor have you been doing?”

“Guthix made me World Guardian. And I touched a shiny wossname. A lot's happened between then and now.”

“I'm stuck in the future, it seems. I just predicted you would be here ten seconds ago.”

“That you are,” she said with a sigh. “Head up to the top of the castle, ok? I’ll be there soon.”

The gnome vanished like the first one had, and Teiran carefully made her way around the castle walls again, heading for the courtyard. Along the way, she glanced at the bridge again. As she did, she nearly jumped in surprise — a small figure was sitting there, his feet dangling over the river. 

“Hazelmere?” she said. “I thought there were only two of you.”

“I've seen this before, you know. The way you are,” he said, not even looking at her. “With the druid. Rather chatty, though she had a good deal more common sense than you. If you ever meet, I'd take notes.”

“Druid? What are you talking about?”

Hazelmere didn’t reply, and simply vanished. Teiran shook her head. “Maybe I  _ should _ be taking notes…”

She made her way back up to the castle’s roof. The first Hazelmere was where she’d left him, watching over the fragment of a town with a much sharper look than before.

“Human,” he greeted, as she stood beside him. “Thank you. I haven’t thought linearly in some time.”

“It’s no problem.” She looked down to the bridge, wondering if she should ask about the figure she saw there, before pushing it to the back of her thoughts.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “You aren’t from Lumbridge. I don’t think you’ve ever been here.”

“This place is a Limbo,” Hazelmere said. “Of sorts. A place for Guthixians and the Godless to go.”

“This is your afterlife? It’s a little… bleak, isn’t it?”

“No.” he looked out over the shadow of the town, almost as though taking it in for the first time. “It’s a place for waiting. Much like the other afterlives.”

“Have you… met anyone else here?” she said, trying not to let the desperation in her voice show. “At all?”

Hazelmere shook his head, and Teiran’s heart sank. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps I did, at one point. But I cannot remember.”

Teiran took a breath. “It’s fine,” she said, measuredly. “Hazelmere… I’m glad I found you. We’re —”

“Facing Nomad, yes. And his ilk. They tried to take me, but I believe my non-temporal conformity made them think that I wasn’t worth the effort.”

She managed to crack a smile. “Even if it weren’t for that, I think all your grumbling would have sent them running.”

“Ha! And I suppose that you’d be right,” he chuckled. He then paused, seeming to consider something, and turned to her. 

“The weariness in your eyes betrays you.” The gnome let out a heavy sigh, and sat down on the battlement wall. “I suppose you’re angry at me.”

“What?! No, I…” She searched for the right words. “Look, it’s not… like that…”

“You have a right to be angry,” he said. 

She sighed. “What? About being right?”

“You believe I was?”

“In a sense,” she said. “About being stupid. And being heroic.”  _ About Cyrisus not listening. _

“Hm. I often wonder if the advice I’ve given you was correct.”

“I wonder, too,” she said.  _ Or what would have happened if I hadn't taken it.  
_

“In any case,” Hazelmere said, getting up. “What is done is done. The past cannot be changed. Not largely, in any case.”

She cracked a wan smile. “Oh, don’t go on about planks and Camelot now.”

“Ha! For all the doubt I may have in my other counsel, I stand by that particular seed of wisdom,” he said. “Now. Are we going to loiter? Or are we going to get to the task at hand?”

“Ah, you’re right.” She stood up, cracking out the stiffness in her neck. “No time to waste.” 

With that, she grinned. “We’ve got a barricade to ram.”


	60. Formation

The ram was well underway when Teiran arrived. Ghommal was hauling in dead tree branches nearly as thick as himself, and the others were readily assisting. 

“Idria,” Teiran greeted. “How far are we?”

“Nearly there,” Idria said. We’re in need of a few more branches.”

“I’ll handle that. Where’s the hostage? Did we get any more info out of him?”

“He was rather… uncooperative. Turael suggested he get in a better headspace.”

“How so?”

Idria wordlessly pointed towards the bridge. Teiran looked over the side, and was greeted by a string of Old Burthorpian curses as the Ascended dangled by his feet, head skimming over the water.

“He’s probably most useful there,” she said, pulling her head back. “Where do I go to get the branches and such?”

“Talk to Icthlarin.”

Teiran headed to the war table, where Death and Icthlarin were deep in conversation.

“Anything change?” she asked. Icthlarin shook his head. 

“Nothing so far…” A thought seemed to occur to him. “Tell me — you didn’t encounter any other souls in your journey?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I saw the Ascended drag off one early on, but Sloane, Ghommal, Turael, Duradel, Idria, and Hazelmere are the only others.”

“Odd,” Icthlarin muttered. “Some of the souls on the other side… they’re been escaping. I can feel them. They seem to be recaptured almost as quickly, but the fact that they are…”

“When did it happen?”

“It coincides with the shrieks,” Icthlarin said. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” teiran said. “Can you send me to that thicket you mentioned?”

Icthlarin nodded, and waved his hand. The scenery shifted, and Teiran found herself in a desolate clearing — grey and gloomy like the rest of the underworld, with only a few spare dead trees to break the monotony.

The others had already done a number on the woods — she noted the stumps where Sloane had put his axe to use, and the ragged holes in the ground where Ghommal had likely ripped the trees out whole — and she made her way to a decently sized dead willow on the other side of the clearing. Then, she retrieved an axe from her toolbelt and began to chop. 

The monotony of the work gave her a moment to clear her head.

_ And it’s good to see everyone again,  _ she thought.  _ They all seem happy, which is the most I could hope for.... _

She sighed.  _ I just wish that it wasn’t under these circumstances… _

For the first time since she’d entered the underworld, she felt a breeze. Something in the air made her skin prickle, and she suddenly tasted copper. 

She turned around, waving her axe. “Who’s there?” she said. “If it’s one of you crystal-heads, I’ll have you know that we have your leader tied to the shittiest bungee jump in Gielinor.”

The clearing was as empty as it has been before; however, Teiran couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. 

“If there’s someone here,” she said, “quit it with the mind games and show yourself.”

Laughter — dry and raspy — echoed throughout the clearing. 

“I knew you’d show up at some point,” Nomad’s voice said. “Still alive, of course. And yet you envy the dead. How ironic. How  _ pathetic _ .”

Teiran rolled her eyes and turned back to the tree. “Are you going to blather at me?” she said. “Or are you actually going to show up and fight?”

Nomad laughed again. “You hide your fear behind mockery? Childish. You’re no better than a snot-nosed brat, hurling insults across a sandpit over a toy that’s been taken from you.”

“And you’re apparently no better than a voice in the theatre that tells people where the washrooms are,” she said. “Unless you’re going to tell me anything useful, do me a favour and kindly fuck off.”

Nomad growled. “You’re in my land now, whelp. The only thing protecting you from joining the souls I’ve captured is the fading power of a dead god. One that you killed.”

Teiran gripped the axe’s handle harder and swung.  _ THWACK. _

Nomad continued. 

“You think me a villain. And that you’re a hero. That’s the story you tell yourself, like some fairytale. A lie. Do you think you’ve made the world a better place? You, who led Sliske right to Guthix’s resting place? You, who’s only ever done anything with the promise of a reward? You, who stumbled across the Stone of Jas, and brought it to the surface?”

The axe’s handle creaked under the strain, and she struck a particularly deep gouge into the dead tree.  _ THWACK. _

“I see the pathetic little coalition you’ve gathered,” Nomad said. “Their souls are strong, I’ll grant them that. They’ll make fine additions to the collection. And the sooner it happens, the better. Then they can stop pretending to be happy to see you, and you can be spared their platitudes.”

Teiran stopped, mid-swing.

“Struck a nerve, didn’t I?” Nomad laughed. “You know that they’re hiding the truth, right? They conceal their anger and resentment under such a pleasant facade — they’re probably hoping that you can carry a message to their loved ones, if only they can please you. You led them to their deaths. You ripped them from their lives and left them here, in a sad shadow of what they once had. And now you’re back. What mockery. What an insult. You call yourself World Guardian? You couldn’t even protect six measly m—”

She threw the axe, sending it whirling through the clearing. It struck the cliffside, the dragon metal embedding deeply into the rock.

Teiran stepped back and took a breath. “If you’re trying to get me worked up,” she said through clenched teeth, “you’ve got me there. But if you’re trying to guilt me, then you need to try harder. I’ve been there. And I’ve felt far, far worse.”

She glared at the clearing, perhaps for dramatic effect. It remained silent, save for the metallic hum of the still-vibrating axe. 

She sighed, and yanked the hatchet free, telling herself that the shake in her hands was from impatience. And then, resolving not to look behind her again, she turned to the half-fallen tree and began to chop once more.

* * *

When she returned, arms full of wood, the ram was nearly complete; Ghommal set to lashing the additional branches to the construct, while everyone else convened at the war table. 

“Ok,” Teiran said, looking out over the model. “What’s our strategy here? Bust in and handle whatever’s back there?”

Sloane shook his head. “They’re going to be expecting us. If we want an ambush, then we’d be asking for one.”

Icthlarin nodded. “There are two sets of doors; one leading to the fortress entrance, just across the bridge, and one that leads to the sanctum itself. It is there that I can sense the Soul Obelisk, and there where we will face Nomad.”

“Where are the Ascended?” Teiran asked. Icthlarin concentrated.

“Between the bridge and the Sanctum, mostly,” he said.

“Ok. Icthlarin, Death and I can take Nomad in the main chamber, then,” she said. “Sloane, Ghommal, Hazelmere, Idria, Turael and Duradel — you stay by the entrance and draw the enemy.”

Turael shook his head. “Out of the question. You’ll need all the help you can get,” he said. “Let us help you.”

“No.”

Every head turned to her, and she felt the weight of their stares. 

“Look,” she said. “I’ve fought Nomad before. I know how to fight him again. And, this time, kill him. And I can’t die, which means that there’s no risk to the rest of you.”

“We can’t die either,” Idria said. 

“You can get absorbed, though,” she said. “The Soul Obelisk is going to be right there, pulling you in. It might snatch you up the minute you step in there.”

“We fight it,” Ghommal said. “We been fightin’ it whole time. We fight it more.”

Duradel nodded. “Our spirits are strong. If we attack Nomad as a united front, then we have a better chance of defeating him.”

Teiran closed her eyes. “You  _ know  _ what happened the last time we took an enemy like this head-on, _ ”  _ she said. “We can’t take that risk again. Even if you can’t die again, if the Obelisk gets you, or you get absorbed into Gielinor or whatever… I’m not sure if there’s a way back.”

“We’re not leaving you,” Sloane said. “If we’re facing down Nomad, we’ll do it together.”

“One of us has not had their say,” Idria said. “And he is the wisest among us. Hazelmere. What should we do?”

Everyone turned to the gnome, who, up until that moment, had been sitting back and quietly watching the discussion. When Idria mentioned his name, he simply raised his eyebrows.

“Hmmmmmm,” he said. “A pressing dilemma. Both sides have compelling arguments. And I, of all here, understand noble intentions. Hmmmm.”

He turned to Teiran, and she felt his hazel eyes bore into her. “I trust the human’s judgement,” he said. “Nomad’s pull is strong. And though the soul is immortal, his pull is strong. I can feel it, even from here. We’d be fools to underestimate it.”

At this, Idria turned to her. “Hazelmere speaks wisely. Teiran… are you sure?”

She nodded. “I am.” She turned to the others.

“I don’t doubt your strength. If we did face Nomad together, the fight would go easier. But you getting sucked into the Obelisk… that’s too much of a risk. You’ve fought for Gielinor before. You’ve fought for me before. Now it’s my turn to fight for you. Please.”

She was ready to argue again, wondering if she even had time — however, she felt Idria rest her hand on top of hers.

“Then I’ll go with your plan,” Idria said. 

Sloane nodded. “If you want us to fight the side guard, then we’ll give them an ass-kicking like they’ve never felt before.”

Turael unhitched his halberd. “If slaying’s what you want, then slaying’s what I’ll offer you,” he said. Duradel nodded, curling his hands around his rune claws.

Ghommal stomped over, and patted Teiran on the head, making her brain swim for a hot moment. 

“You no have to worry, lady,” he said with a grin. “Ghommal thump glowy fellows real good. You focus on Nomad fight. Gnome is right. You strong.”

She grinned back, trying to ignore the grateful sting in her eyes, and took a breath. 

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said. “What they’re all planning back there, or what's in store for us. Nomad’s taken your afterlife from you. He’s ripped this place clean and left you without any peace. Peace that you, of anyone else here, rightfully deserve.”

She paused. “I can’t give you your lives back. I wish I could. But I will fight for you now, even if I couldn’t back on Gielinor. It’s the least I owe you. And if he kills me, I’ll come back and fight again. And again. And again. Even if it takes me forever. I won’t stop until he’s finished.”

She pulled out her longsword, its scarlet metal gleaming in the gloomy firelight, and held it before her. “Nomad wants us to be afraid,” she said. “He wants us to feel helpless and hopeless and weak. And we’re going to prove him wrong. Are you ready to?”

The group let out a roar, holding their various weapons (and, in Ghommal’s case, fists) in the air. 

She felt that blaze in her chest again — a fire, long frustrated, long denied, now slowly waking again. She felt angry. She felt  _ alive. _ And she wasn’t about to let that feeling go.

“Right!” She shouted. “Icthlarin will be leading, it’s his fortress, and he can get the best sense for what’s ahead. Ghommal, you take the front. You’re our tank. Turael, you flank him. Mages — Hazelmere and Idria — stay in the middle. Sloane, you stay aside Idria. Duradel and Death can defend from the back.”

Icthlarin nodded. “When we arrive at the sanctum entrance, I’ll be close enough that I can teleport Death, Teiran, and me in.”

“And if Nomad comes out and tries to fight you,” Teiran said, “or if things go pear-shaped,  _ run. _ We’ll be alright. We can reform and plan again. But if any of you get captured, it’s game over.”

With that, the assorted spirits arranged themselves around the ram, tensed and ready. Teiran, weapons drawn, looked over the fortress entrance across the bridge. It was probably only a couple hundred metres away at most, but it felt much longer — an entire desert, vast and stretching. 

“So it comes to this,” Hazelmere said, holding his staff at the ready. “The last stand of the last souls left whole in the underworld. Are you prepared, human? How are you feeling?”

Teiran cracked her knuckles. The chill of the underworld didn’t even affect her now, and she let the white-hot warmth of rage, as well as the memory of mocking laughter, fill her veins and keep the cold at bay.

“Honestly, Hazelmere? Pissed.” She tugged her hat lower, and let her whole body relax. “Otherwise? Ready to fight. Ready to win.”

She pulled in a breath of cold, dead air. “Let’s do this.”


	61. Escape

The ram struck the gate with a thunderous crack, which echoed all through the empty cavern. 

“Again!” Icthlarin shouted. “Damn, I worked hard on this door…”

The ram hit the gate again, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the ancient wood; a third strike and something behind it broke, sending the door swinging inward. 

The group charged forward, weapons at the ready. “Alright, you crystal scumbags!” Teiran shouted. “Save yourself some time and drop —”

She stopped short, as she took in the scene around her. “Dead?”

She’d been expected Ascended. Lots of them. And, to be fair, there were quite a few. She just didn’t expect them to be lying on the ground. 

“What the…?” She stepped closer and kicked one of the bodies. It rolled over, lifeless, with several blue-bleeding gashes all over its body.

Duradel knelt down and examined one of the corpses, the neck of which was twisted to the side. “It’s certainly the work of a slayer expert,” he said. “Whoever did this was strategic.” 

“But who?” Teiran asked. “You’re the only souls left. Nothing living can be down here. If this were the work of a god, it would be flashier.”

She kicked another body. This one looked like it had been garrotted — its neck was riddled with ropy burns, punctuated by little cuts from what looked like barbs. 

Teiran thought of something, and gripped her whip tighter.  _ Unless… _

The crackle of static interrupted her thoughts, as the air around them began to glow. 

“There are more coming,” Death said. “Ready yourselves. Icthlarin?”

“Give me a bit,” the god said, concentrating. “There’s a teleblock on the sanctum, but I think I can get around it. Let me focus...”

Ascended began to materialize around them, surrounding them with increasing density. Idria and Hazelmere settled into the middle, ringed by the fighters, as Icthlarin began to mutter a Kharidian spell under his breath. 

Turael grinned. “Who’s to say an old soul doesn’t go down fighting?”

“Nobody,” Teiran said. “We’re not going down. We’re winning this.”

With a wild roar, the group began their attack. Spells flew around them, the air thick with magic from both the Ascended and the souls. Teiran heard crystal shatter and crunch next to her, as Sloane’s axe crashed through the shield-like growths of one of the monsters. Turael gravitated to the middle, sniping foes with grim efficiency.

Duradel was making good headway with his rune claws; Death’s scythe sliced cleanly through the throngs. Ghommal, while less elegant, made space through the ranks with the ancient, martial art of Picking Up An Enemy And Using It To Beat The Others To Death (Lotus Style).

Though they made progress, the Ascended just kept coming. Teiran lost patience with the crossbow and reverted to melee, swinging and attacking and undercutting with all her might, feeling her weapons and body move instinctively as she watched for weak spots. One Ascended was proving particularly difficult to land a hit on, as it dodged left and right, and deflected her sword blows easily with its crystalline arm. 

_ Annoying little prick.  _ The attacks that were landing kept bouncing off of its armour, and she let out a growl of frustration. 

She glanced to one of the numerous bodies on the floor and got an idea. She flicked her whip, feinting to the right. As the monster ducked to block, she twisted her wrist, and wrapped the weapon’s length around its neck. 

The Ascended let out a metallic shriek, as she flicked her wrist again and let Abyssal energy flow through it. Then, with a sharp tug, she sent it crashing to the ground, hearing a satisfied crack as it landed.

_ It’s probably not good for it, _ she thought, as she wrapped the whip around another Ascended’s throat, and as the edge of unbidden memories bubbled to her thoughts.  _ It’ll probably get all snarled after this. But I can always buy another one…. _

“Teiran! Harold!” Icthlarin barked. “I’ve broken through! Prepare yourselves!”

Teiran nodded, and fell back, finding herself next to Hazelmere, who was firing spells furiously through the crowd.

“Hazelmere!” She shouted. “If this goes south…”

“I’ll make sure that we escape safely, human,” Hazelmere said. “You have my word.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” 

The world around her began to shimmer as the teleport spell sparked. “Good luck!” She shouted. “Nomad’s going down, one way or the other! I promise!”

The last thing she heard as they teleported away were the ragged cheers of the warriors, as they rallied her in farewell.

* * *

The place they materialized it was a balcony of sorts. It overlooked an architectural anomaly Teiran couldn’t quite find a name for, but figured that the terminology ‘big bloody hole in the floor’ would probably suffice. Said hole in the floor had a single, narrow stone bridge crossing it, upon which stood Nomad, watching them with delinquent boredom.

He’d changed since she’d last seen him, when he was part of Zamorak’s heist crew. He’d grown paler (if that were even possible) and thinner; his sallow skin clung to his head and around his eyes, unconcealed by his scarf, and his eyes glowed with an unnatural green-blue, similar to the wisps she’d seen dancing over the river earlier. 

He raised his staff, which glowed with the same power, and laughed. It echoed throughout the chamber, amplified by the cold stone of the fortress.

“So you come crawling back,” he said, resonating with the sound of many voices speaking at once, “thinking you could defy me. An old man. A weak half-godling. And an impudent child, pretending to be a hero.”

Teiran saw red. “Listen up, you bald arse-wipe!” she shouted, pointing toward him. “You can monologue all you want, but that’s not going to stop me from coming over there, kicking your skinny little behind, and feeding you to Amascut!”

“And to what end?” Nomad said. “I want the same thing as you, ‘World Guardian,’” he said mockingly. “A world free of gods and their wars. One that can be protected from divine influence. And what better to fight gods than another god?”

He paused, and raised his arms in triumph. “And what better god to defend us,” he said, “than a god of the people?”

A low rumble passed through the fortress, originating from under the bridge. Teiran suddenly felt a chill in the air, and nearly gagged as the stench of death filled her nose. Then she heard it: a loud, low, pained groan —like a crowd of people crying out in collective agony.

A hulking behemoth, huge and vaguely person-shaped, rose from under the bridge. The horn-like protrusions on its head were a grotesque mockery of the god she’d watched die in front of her, as was its twisted face. The soul obelisk embedded into its form gave it a hunch back, and the construct swayed under the weight of it, unable to fully straighten out. 

What horrified her the most, however, were the bodies. Their faces locked into a silent scream, struggling against their fusions to the behemoth that imprisoned them. Their limbs waved and flailed like the arms of a disgusting anemone, helpless, yet still weakly resisting. How many were there? Hundreds? Thousands? Millions? They were unrecognizable, their cries and groans mixing into one anomalous sound that raised the hairs on her arms and neck, and Teiran felt her stomach suddenly and horribly turn. 

“Nomad,” Death said, his voice shaking in shocked digust. “What have you done?”

Teiran attempted to say something; however, instinct took over. She fell to her knees and retched, her head spinning as she tried to comprehend what she’d just seen. 

_ Is that what he’s been using the souls for? _ she thought, her vision blurring as she heaved.  _ That… thing? Why does it look like Guthix? They’re all twisted and glued together…. _

“Gielinor,” Nomad said. “A god that requires no worship. No subjugation. No devotion. One made to serve the people… a god that shall bring salvation to this battle-scarred world.”

Teiran shook her head. “You’re mad.” Though her body trembled, and though her mouth felt coated in glue, Teiran managed to stumble to her feet. “Even if I believed a word of the bullshit that just came from your mouth, this… this is just  _ wrong. _ ”

She forced herself to look at the construct again. It swayed next to the bridge, its stance unsteady as the souls trapped within fought for freedom. Just beholding it sent a new wave of nausea washing over her, but she forced it down. 

“I’m going to stop this,” she said. “I’m going to stop  _ you. _ Dying once wasn’t enough, was it? But this time, I’ll make sure to do it properly.”

Teiran turned to Death. “Can you and Icthlarin take down that…  _ thing _ without hurting the souls?”

Death nodded. “Freeing them would dissolve it, I believe. Nomad, however, seems to be channeling the obelisk’s power.”

She cracked her whip. “Leave him to me.”

“Teiran!” Icthlarin barked, but she didn’t heed him, instead launching herself towards the bridge where Nomad stood. Nomad raised his staff, eyes glittering with malice, and directed a blast towards her. 

Teiran dodged, feeling the spell’s icy rush as it blasted past her, and unleashed a slashing attack as she ran towards Nomad. He ducked away, managing to avoid the counter from her sword as he contorted his body with surprising dexterity. 

He swung his staff again, and a barrage of spells erupted from it. They struck Teiran like a scattershot, leaving burned patches on her skin and smoking spots on her armour where they hit.

Biting through the pain, she attacked again; as he ducked for a second time, she turned her arm and lashed at his face, cracking it between Nomad’s eyes. He let out a roar of pain and blindly blasted another spell towards her, which she easily dodged.

Teiran snarled. “I know your tricks!” she shouted, dancing back from the blast’s path. “Just because your spells are a different colour doesn’t mean you’ve more a chance of winning this!”

Nomad grinned madly, eyes leering with an eerie glow. “I beg to differ!” He raised his staff and slammed it towards the ground. “Feel the wrath of your new god!”

The chamber rumbled again, and Gielinor rose from the pit below them, bringing a chorus of agonized cries from the trapped souls that formed it. Its blank, dead eyes looked to her blearily, before the construct raised its left hand. 

_ Shit! _ She rolled out of the way as the hand slammed down on the bridge, sending it rocking and swaying as she struggled to keep her balance. She could hear the souls’ shrieks more clearly now, ringing through her head, and she resisted her instinct to clamp her hands over her ears.

Teiran looked to Gielinor again, as much it made her stomach turn. It was pulling its hand away; as it did so, she noticed the deep gash in its front — stretching from its left shoulder to its hip, looking as though it had been made with some sharp weapon. 

And as Gielinor swayed and turned, sinking back into the pit, she noticed something else. Its right hand was gone — only a stump remained at the wrist, burned and charred.

Teiran caught a flicker of movement at the edge of the chasm. Death hovered closely, his scythe aglow with pale blue light.

_ He’s gotten a head start, I see,  _ she thought, as she readied another attack.  _ If I stay alert enough and focus on Nomad, then Gielinor shouldn’t be a problem for much longer.  _

She turned back to Nomad, whose form was shimmering like sand on a hot day. Before she could attack again, it stretched, slowly dividing into two shapes — two identical Nomads, standing side by side.

“Can you trust your senses, worm?” the figures said, both at the same time. “Can you tell which is the real one? We both hit with the same fury, so prepare to feel both of our wr— ACK!”

She struck the Nomad on the right, landing a sizable blow on his side, and knocking the breath out of him. 

“You’ve got a bruise on your face,” she said. “Your double doesn’t. Bit of an amateur mistake, if you ask me.”

The Nomads roared and both attacked at once. Two spells launched towards her, the first barely missing as she leapt out of the way, and the second splashing off as she muttered a protection prayer.

Out of the corner of her eyes she could see Death distracting Gielinor, slashing at the construct with all his might. Loose souls leaked from its form as Icthlarin stood nearby, pulling them away and ushering them towards the main gate.

_ Keep stalling, _ she thought, dodging another spell. She reached into her bag and dug around, and retrieved a vial full of thick, black, sticky liquid. As she uncorked it with her teeth, it smoked, making her eyes water.

_ I was hoping to save this for an emergency, _ she thought.  _ Though this probably qualifies as one. _

She took a swig. The potion burned and seared her throat and stomach as it went down, and her body was racked with shocking, sudden spasms; in turn, she felt the raw power surge through her, crackling with a faint static over her skin.

It was only a faint shadow of what she’d felt with the Stone of Jas — almost a mockery. However, it was the boost that she needed.

Another spell struck her, fizzling out against the protection prayer and barrier of raw magic that flowed from her. Empowered by newfound strength, she ran straight towards the Nomads, weapons splayed outward towards them.

She grabbed the clone’s ankle with her whip, tugging sharply and sending it slamming down onto the bridge’s surface. As the original swept his staff towards her, attempting to knock her off her feet as well, she jumped, feeling the power surge in her leg muscles propelling her higher than she could normally go.

Nomad’s eyes widened as she twisted mid-air and planted a foot on his face, feeling it crack satisfyingly under her boot. 

Nomad let out a muffled roar. He aimed the staff towards her, and the glow in his eyes intensified. 

The blast hit her point-blank, breaking through her prayer and striking with the force of an overladen mining cart. Teiran flew across the bridge, desperately trying to right herself mid-air —

— and she smashed into one of the pillars with a sickening crunch. Her vision blurred as her brain swam; though unable to tell up from down, she still attempted to struggle to her feet.

Through the ringing in her ears, she heard shuffling footsteps come her way, stopping right as they reached her. 

Nomad pulled her up by the collar, holding her aloft. Through wavering vision, she could see the sneer on his face; she wondered if his clone was following suit behind him, or if she was merely seeing double.

“So much for the ‘World Guardian,’” he said. “Relying on the same old tricks, the same old tired weapons and moves. It’s the Sixth Age. And a new era demands a new guardian.  _ Me _ . Not some pathetic whelp that clings to a dead god and a dead past. Any last words?”

“Yeah,” she croaked. “Not. The. Fucking. Collar.”

She twisted away from his grip and punched him in the face. It was a glancing blow at best, but enough to get him to release her. She managed to land on her feet, albeit wobblily. 

“Impudent oaf!” Nomad howled. “My lessons have not reached you, apparently. If I cannot teach you, then perhaps Gielinor will.”

The world twisted around her, and she landed in the middle of the bridge, the teleport depositing her roughly on the cold stone. Nomad materialized next to her, his eyes glittering with mad intensity. 

“Gielinor!” He bellowed. “Hear the call of your creator. Crush this insect before you! Make her soul part of your own!”

The construct turned, its blank stare settling on Teiran. It bore several more slashes now, and chunks of it were missing, but its intact arm still reached for her. She tried to dodge, but the blow from Nomad still left her off balance. 

An icy hand wrapped around her, crushing in its grip, and lifted her off the bridge. She saw Death and Icthlarin race towards her from across the chasm; as they did, however, they crashed into an invisible barrier at the bridge’s entrance. Nomad laughed as the two struggled against the shimmering wall. 

“I may not be able to kill you,” he said, “but you can still become part of the Leviathan. The power of Guthix, fueling the successor to Guthix… I wonder?”

Teiran struggled in the hand’s grasp, which squeezed her tighter and tighter as it brought her closer to the construct. The screams were everywhere now, ringing in her ears with a resonance that burrowed down into every fibre of her being. She resisted the urge to join them, and instead focused on attempting to break free.

_ Fuck. Fuck! This thing is too strong!  _ She kicked wildly as the cold numbed her arms into stillness. She could see the individual souls now, their faces locked in perpetual pain. She could see the clean slashes made by Death — where was he, at a time like this? —. And the original tear, much messier — she could even see the little cuts of the barbs….

_ Barbs. _ The burned stump. Death hadn’t made those injuries, she realized. Someone else had. Someone with fire magic, and a whip….

Her heartbeat quickened. She hadn’t let herself hope at all, not for the entire time she’d been down in the Underworld. 

But now, that was all she could do.

She took a deep breath — as much as she could, at least, against the hand compressing her chest — and looked into Gielinor’s eyes.

“I know you’re in there!” she screamed. “All of you! I know you’re here, somewhere! Fight it! Fight him! Fight the obelisk! Death’s freed some of you already — this isn’t how it has to end! Resist it!”

Gielinor paused. Though it didn’t relinquish its grip, it stopped moving its hand, instead staring at her with its dead eyes. 

_ C’mon, c’mon!  _ She thought.  _ Break free of this! _

Nomad laughed, mockingly, mirthlessly behind her. “You think a rallying speech will save you?” He said. “Just like in children’s books? All the souls within Gielinor  _ want _ this. Why wouldn’t they? They get to live again. When Gielinor ascends, they shall see the land that they once knew — the grass. The trees. The sky. Not some pale imitation in the afterlife. Why would you deny them that?”

Teiran shook her head. “No!” she said. “It would be a life of misery — for all of them! They won’t be able to die or move on!”

She turned to Gielinor again. “You don’t want that, do you?” she said. “You want to go back to your afterlives. I know you do. I understand you want to see the surface again. But not like this.”

Something in the air shifted. The screaming, once ceaseless, slowly died, replaced by thousands of whispers that came all in one hushed roar. Gielinor still looked at her blankly, but Teiran felt the stares of many eyes on her.

“Will you,” a soft voice rustled in her ear, sounding like a quiet legion. “You will end this?”

“Yes,” she said. “I promise. You can go back.”

“Gielinor,” it said. “Our home. It will be protected?”

She nodded, slowly. “I’ll protect it. As best as I can. You have my word.” 

Gielinor stared at her again, its head tilted to the side, as though listening to someone. Then it let out a sigh — or, rather, a multitude of sighs — and she felt the hand around her relax. Slowly, slowly, it lifted her back to the bridge, and released her. 

She breathed in deeply, taking in a full lungful of air and shaking feeling back into her muscles. “Thank you,” she breathed.

Nomad let out a feral shriek, swinging his staff towards her again. “Weakling!” He screamed. “Worm! Insect! You are dooming the land to be torn apart by the gods! Everything you’ve done has been against what you claim to stand for!”

Teiran unraveled her whip, feeling its reassuring weight against her palm. “Not this,” she said. “Not at this price. Let the dead have their peace, Nomad. It’s all they have left.”

Nomad screamed again, charging towards her; what stopped him was an enormous hand descending from the sky, which slammed down on him as though he were a mosquito. 

Teiran froze. Gielinor stood still for a moment, before lifting its hand again, now with Nomad in its grip. Though his head was bloodied, he was still alive, and kicking madly against the construct’s hold.

“Gielinor!” He wailed. “My creation! Do not listen to her! She will only bring doom and destruction to RuneScape!”

“No.” A thousand souls sighed and whispered with quiet fury, directed towards the mage. “You have trapped us. You have enslaved us. She will free us. He has told us.”

_ He? _ Teiran thought.  _ Who…? _

Her speculations were interrupted by another scream from Nomad, as Gielinor squeezed its hand. Bone popped and cracked under its grip, and Teiran winced.

“This ends,” Gielinor said. “Now.”

It released Nomad, letting him drop to the bridge with a sickening crack, where he lay still. The barrier on the bridge shimmered, and then disappeared; as soon as it did, Death and Icthlarin raced to the center of the bridge.

Gielinor let out another sigh, and slumped to the ground, its eyes closed. The souls within stopped writhing, seemingly exhausted.

She turned to Death. “Free them,” she begged. “You can do it, right?”

Death nodded, and picked up Nomad’s staff. It glowed in his grip, taking on an icy-blue tint, as it began to glow with power.

Teiran looked to Gielinor again, and the thousands of forms within it. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I could have prevented this… I could have kept Nomad from you. You’ll be free soon, I promise.”

It sighed again; this time, with relief.

_ “Please,” _ it said.

Death nodded. He raised the staff and slammed it to the ground, releasing a wave of cold energy. Teiran felt it pass through her, leaving her shivering. As it reached Gielinor, it ran over like water, washing away its solidness in its wake, leaving only a shimmering, pale outline. 

Death stepped back. Scythe in hand, he swung. 

The blade cut the form clean in two, and it disappeared. For a moment, there was nothing but silence. For the first time since she’d stepped into the room, there were no screams or whispers or echoes at all. 

Then, all at once, she heard a roar; a simultaneous, joyous cry that filled the chamber. Then a rush, strong as a gale, invisible and intense, so much that her ears popped. Teiran’s hair whipped back, and she had to grab her hat from flying away as the souls flew past her, towards the gate from where they came. 

It continued for about a minute, endless and deafening, before finally dying away with a last, quiet whisper. When it was over, her ears rang, and she shook; unable to form a sentence, she simply closed her eyes. 

_ It’s over. _

She turned to Death and Icthlarin, the latter of which sagged in relief, his head lowered. 

“Finally,” Icthlarin's said. “This nightmare can end.”

Death stood straight, his scythe now pointed at Nomad, still on the ground. He was still alive, breathing heavily, his eyes filled with hatred.

“So it’s come to this,” he said thickly, blood flecking his lips. “The noble hero defeats the dastardly villain once more. So the story continues, again, and again, and again.”

Teiran, tired as she was, rolled her eyes. “Do you ever shut up?” she said. “It’s done, Nomad. No more second chances. What you’ve done is fucking horrible. Do you think I’m going to show you any mercy?”

“Mercy?” Nomad said, his voice incredulous. “Mercy? Ha! It would be too much to ask, from someone so delusional. Don’t you see it? How you’re the center of the game? Your masters control you with invisible strings, but you’re too blind and stupid to see them.”

“I have no masters,” Teiran growled, her hands curling into fists. “And I’m not going to let anyone or anything control me.”

“That’s what you keep telling yourself. You’re in a story,” Nomad spat. “A very pretty one. A nice one. Perhaps one with a happy ending, if you’re lucky. But you were never in control.”

“Ok. We’re done here.” She drew her sword and aimed it at Nomad’s throat in one smooth movement. “I’m going to kill you now. Whatever afterlife you get will be too good for you.”

Despite the blade at his neck, Nomad sneered. “Which is more,” he said, “than you could ever hope for.”

And then Nomad said nothing more; with a dark-red flash, Teiran slashed the blade. It connected with Nomad’s neck, leaving a thin scarlet line where it struck, before blood cascaded from it in an oozing flow. Nomad slumped forward, his pale pallor quickly turning chalk-white as he fell.

Teiran wiped the sword clean, her face expressionless, before returning it to her belt. She could have said something; some one-liner, or even something about riddance. But there was nothing left to say. She merely watched the corpse tumble to the ground, hoping that it wouldn’t rise again. 

It was then that she heard it; a slow, heavy clap, somehow mocking, coming from next to her.

“Bravo!” A familiar voice said, slithering into her ear. “Bravo indeed. What a show! What a performance. You had me at the edge of my seat the entire time. Simply marvellous!”

She didn’t even turn, instead gripping her sword’s hilt even tighter. “Oh, just fucking show yourself, Sliske.”

“Very well!” The mahjarrat appeared to her left, his face lit up in a grin. “You know, if you bothered to bring your ring of visibility, then we wouldn’t have to go through this whole song and dance. It would save you a lot of heartbreak, I think.”

“Get to the godsdamned point,” she growled. She heard Death and Icthlarin shift next to her, getting into battle stances, and she, too, braced herself.

Sliske waved his hands. “No need for the defensive!” He said. “I’m simply here to offer you an invitation.”

He flicked his wrist, and an ornate envelope appeared in his hand. With another flick, he tossed it towards Death, who caught it easily. 

“You, see, Gielinor, for all intents and purposes, is a god,” Sliske said. “Which I believe qualifies you to attend the little work conference I put together around the Stone of Jas. You’re free to decline, of course. But I would go if I were you. It’s catered.”

Death narrowed his eyes. “I will attend,” he said icilily, “if only to confiscate the Stone from you.”

“Very well! If you think you can,” Sliske said with a wink. “But time will tell, won’t it?”

“Whatever,” Teiran growled. “You’ve delivered your fucking letter. Now piss off.”

“Ah, ah!” Sliske said, grinning wider. “I’m not finished here. Sliske Claus isn’t about to leave anyone out of the giving party. And I have a little gift for you that I’m sure you’d be interested in.”

He snapped his fingers. The air next to him shimmered, and a pale blue figure materialized next to him, faded and flickering against the dim background of the chamber, and feebly struggling against some unseen force.

“I picked up a little something on the way here,” Sliske said. Teiran’s breath froze as she took in the spirit before her. Its form, though barely visible, was unmistakable; from the hair, to the robe set, to the whip hitched in his belt, to the terror in his eyes.

“It was quite funny, really,” Sliske continued, as Teiran felt her eyes sting. “He was quite a fighter when I found him. He nearly did in Gielinor before you got here! But I couldn’t have that happen without giving you three a chance. So I, ah, decided to take him into custody.”

He grinned again. “No matter. I’ll let him go. Just give me the word. You’ll owe me a little favour for it, of course. But it’ll be nothing more than a trifle. I promise. Of course, you could turn me down. But I don’t think either of you will like the consequences.”

Cyrisus struggled again, unable to break free from whatever was holding him. Sliske gave him a passing glance before turning back to Teiran.

“What do you say?” Sliske said, extending a hand. “Shall we make a deal?”


	62. Back to Life

Teiran froze, unable to move, unable to speak. She couldn’t do anything but watch in horror as Cyrisus’ spirit strained silently against his bonds, eyes shut in exhaustion. 

“Well?” Sliske said. “I haven’t got all day. Make a decision.”

“Teiran,” Icthlarin barked. “Don’t —”

Sliske raised a hand. “Ah, ah, Iccy! Another word, and Cabin Boy Cy here gets pitched to the deepest part of the shadow realm I can find! You can try and get him back, of course, which would be very beautiful and poetic and such. But no guarantees you’ll return. At least, not in the same form you came in.”

Icthlarin shut his mouth, though she could hear a low growl under his breath. Teiran curled her hands into fists, ignoring the pain of her nails digging into her palms.

_ It can’t be him. It…  _ Even her thoughts were frozen, crashing into one another, as she scanned for some indicator that would prove her wrong. But it was him, down to every detail; down to the scar on his forehead, and the little tears in the hem of his robeskirt. 

She took a breath. “Let me… Let me speak to him. Please.”

Sliske rolled his eyes. “Fiiiiiine,” he said. “If it’ll help you make a decision quicker.”

He snapped his fingers again, and released Cyrisus. The spirit crashed to ground, making no sound as he did so, and lay still. 

Teiran rushed over, kneeling next to him. Her hand touched his shoulder. While she could feel it, its form was faint, as though she was touching loosely-packed cotton.

“Cyrisus,” she said, softly. “It’s me.”

“Teiran.” His voice was faint, but it was unmistakably his; soft and low, one she’d feared she’d forgotten after so long. 

She felt the tears on her cheeks, cutting through the grime and blood that had accumulated on her face. “I’m here,” she said. “It’s ok.”

“Teiran,” he said again. He struggled to lift his head up, his eyes meeting hers; they glittered with pain, and she felt her stomach twist. “Please. It hurts so much.”

“It’s going to be ok,” she found herself saying, before she could stop herself. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Please,” he said again. “Free me.”

She paused, conflict gnawing in her chest. “Cyrisus… I....”

“Tick,” Sliske said, idly looking at his fingernails. “Tock.”

Teiran dug her nails into her palm again, tracing the familiar calluses that had formed there.  _ I can’t lose him again… not after now. _

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Cyrisus… I’m sorry this happened to you…”

“I forgive you,” he said, though he grimaced, saying it almost reluctantly. “Teiran… my love…”

She nodded, slowly. “I understand.”

She rose, slowly, releasing his shoulder, her face expressionless. Barely changing her stance, she unsheathed her sword and slashed it clean through the spirit, not looking at it as she did so. It sliced in half, releasing an unearthly scream as it disappeared. In the same movement, she swung the sword at Sliske, and then remained still. 

Sliske’s eyes widened. “Now, that’s a bit heartless, isn’t it, hmmm? I would understand if you’d gotten over him after all this time, but even then, it’s a bit harsh.”

“How. Fucking.  _ Dare. You _ ,” she growled, her knuckles white from gripping the handle. “You think you can fucking trick me twice? You think I’m stupid enough to know that’s not him?”

She shook her head. “He never called me ‘my love.’ And if he did, he’d be far too embarrassed to do it in front of anyone else.”  _ And he would never let me say I was sorry, _ she thought to herself.  _ He’d probably apologize right back. That’s the way he is. _

Her hands shook, and every muscle in her body screamed for a fight — however, she remained where she stood. “I know you’re just going to disappear if I try and hit you,” she growled. “So just get the fuck out of my sight.”

Sliske shrugged. “Very well!” He said. “It really is a pity that you don’t have that silly little ring of visibility on you. Like I said — it would have saved you some heartache. Or, perhaps, caused a bit more.”

Teiran narrowed her eyes, but otherwise didn’t reply. 

“Hmm,” Sliske said. “Someone’s moody. Oh, well. I’ll just grab my things and go.”

He disappeared with a crack, and reappeared by Nomad’s body. Icthlarin, snarling, and Death leapt towards him. Sliske grabbed the corpse by the scarf, and winked. 

“Toodeloo!” With that, he disappeared for good, taking the corpse with him.

Teiran pinched the bridge of her nose. “Shit,” she muttered. “That’s definitely not the last I’ll see of Nomad, then…”

Even as she said this, she was still shaking, her eyes still burning from the encounter. She could still see him in her mind’s eye; struggling, fading.  _ It wasn’t him, _ she thought.  _ Sliske thought he could trick you with the details. But not this time. _

Still, she felt a sob rise in her chest, unresistable and unbidden. It stopped in her throat, and for a moment couldn’t breathe, and her body shook all the more.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “Fuck…”

_ It was too much to hope, _ she thought.  _ Maybe… just maybe… _

She felt a bony hand rest on her shoulder, and she looked up. Death regarded her sadly, the lights in his eye sockets faintly flickering. 

“Let’s get you home,” he said.

* * *

The antechamber held quite a few dead Ascended, which littered the floor thickly; as Teiran, Icthlarin and Death entered, nothing and no one was left standing, save for the six spirits they’d left behind. 

Idria was the first to spot them, and she raced over, nearly flying over the sea of corpses.

“Teiran!” She called. “We felt the souls rushing by… Nomad’s defeated, isn’t he?”

Teiran nodded. “For now,” she said, carefully. “It’s the last we’ll see of him down here, at least.”

The others had caught up, and looked mercifully, mostly uninjured. Duradel sported a few burns on his chest, and Ghommal now bore a black eye, but otherwise seemed to be in good spirits.

“Ey, lady,” he said, grinning. “We beat up em crystal people real good. They no comin’ back, either.”

Teiran grinned in return. “That’s good to hear.” She turned to the group as a whole.

“Nomad’s gone. The obelisk is destroyed,” she said. “You can go home now. Back to your afterlives, I mean.”

Death nodded. “I shall return you all to the bridge over the Noumenon.”

He snapped his fingers with a bony click. The room full of descended Ascended disappeared, replaced by the gloomy cavern that housed the bridge and the river.

Icthlarin sniffed the air, and his ears perked up. “The barriers between afterlives are repairing,” he said happily. “They’ll soon be back to their full strength.”

Death nodded. “I would say your goodbyes now,” he said. “The dead must return to their afterlives soon.”

She nodded, and turned to Sloane first.

“Yadech’s in charge of the Strength cape now,” she said. “He goes about lugging a tree branch now. They never got your axe back proper…”

Sloane laughed. “Denied to him until the very end, I suppose,” he said. “Ah, that’s how it goes. Tell him he’s a lunkhead for me, will you?”

“I will.” An enormous hand — though blessedly smaller than Gielinor’s — suddenly landed on her head, nearly crushing her hat again. 

“You tell all Warrior Guild people that Ghommal miss them,” Ghommal said. “An’ Harrallak better keep it running good. Is Laidee bein’ good door guard?”

“Yes. He is,” she said. “I saw him kneecap someone who tried getting in before they met the strength criteria.”

“Good,” Ghommal nodded. “Guild in right hands, then.”

Turael rested a hand on her shoulder. “Burthorpe’ll do well, then,” he said. “Between the guilds and Spria. Speaking of which —” he dug around in his armour, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Give this to her, if you please? Tell her it’s from her old man.”

“Will you all be fine where you are?” Teiran asked. Turael grinned. 

“I’m sure there are a few Ascended still around,” he said. “Target practice. Keep the mind sharp. Though we may have to sacrifice a few statues.”

Duradel, who was leaning against one of the bridge supports, simply nodded. 

“I’ve said to you what I wish for Kuradal to know,” he said. “I have found my peace, adventurer. Let that give you and her some ease at heart.”

Teiran nodded, slowly. “Ok.” She then turned to Idria, who had remained quiet. “Do you —?”

“No,” Idria said. “There is little for me in the land of the living to wait for. The other Guardians are holding the fort, so to speak. Now that Armadyl has returned, they have a mightier leader to look to now.”

She smiled. “And the world, I trust, is in good hands, with you guarding it.”

Teiran returned a wan smile. “Don’t be so sure,” she said. “You know I’ll find a way to muck it up, probably.”

She sighed, and turned to the group as a whole. “I wish I could have done more for you,” she said. “You’ve done so much for me… and for RuneScape. I can’t thank you enough. And I’ll do my best to keep protecting it. For your sake, and for the living. I promise.”

Icthlarin stepped forward. “I, as well, cannot even begin to thank you all for your bravery. The Underworld is in balance once again. Return to your afterlives, and be at rest.”

The spirits began to fade, their forms flickering away into the background. 

“Bye lady!” Ghommal waved. “You stay good!”

“Goodbye!” she shouted. The others, too, yelled and waved as they faded, their voices fading into the echoing hush of the cavern, replaced by the soft rush of the river below. 

Teiran let out a sigh, and felt the long-held knot in her chest finally loosen. She then turned to the gnome sitting on the bridge banister, quietly watching her.

“I haven’t forgotten about you, Hazelmere,” she said. “I figured we could talk on the way back.”

He nodded. “You wish to visit Limbo, one last time?”

She nodded. “There’s something I need to check. Just to be sure.”

* * *

“So… where will you go? After all this?”

They were by the Lum. The Limbo version of the Lum, at least. Hazelmere sat on the stone bridge’s rails, leaning on his staff and idly kicking his feet over the burbling waters below. 

The river here was the same, save for the absent ducks and trout. It was a little eerie, hearing it so quiet, but it was peaceful nonetheless. 

“After this?” Hazelmere echoed. “I’ll return to the anima mundi. Where I was, before I was. Much like the rain going back around up into the sky.”

“That’s rather… obscure.”

“Ha! It would, for a human,” he laughed. “Your kind are so secular. It’s a restfulness I’m looking forward to.”

“Hmm.” She stared out to the river. “I guess this is a real goodbye, then.”

“Only if you don’t go out when it rains.”

She cracked a smile. “A little water never hurt anyone.”

She paused, listening to the lonely stream burble, and for anything else besides it. Footsteps. A voice. Her name, shouted out…

Maybe he was on his way back now, only just now pulling free from the remnants of that horrid construct…

No. She’d seen the souls disperse and return. An hour had passed since then. If she didn’t see a sign by now, then it wasn’t going to happen. 

She sighed. “Does it happen to everyone who’s Guthixian? Or godless? Going back to the anima or whatever?”

“No. There is another afterlife, I believe. Just with all the others.”

“Mmmm.”

_ I don’t want him to wait, do I? _ she thought, as the river flowed on by.  _ If he were stuck back here for however long I’m still going to be alive… no. Where he is, I’m sure he’s happy. _

Such thoughts, however, did nothing to reduce the gnawing pit in her stomach that only grew with each passing moment. 

_ If he knew… if I knew… then I could say goodbye, at least… _

She dug her fingers into the stone rails, trying to ignore the stinging in her eyes. 

“He really is gone,” she said quietly. “Off to wherever he went. And, well, I…” She let out a shuddering sigh. “This is supposed to be easier,” she said. “Isn’t it?”  _ It’s not supposed to feel this raw, after this long… _

Hazelmere patted her on the back. “Wounds of the heart never truly heal,” he said. “We only learn to live with them.”

“I know,” she said. “I just wish….”

She trailed off, her thoughts interrupting her. She wished…

No. She couldn’t change things. Maybe that was for the better, as much as she hurt. She wanted to say goodbye. But she had, hadn’t she? She’d said goodbye in front of a statue in Falador Park. She’d said goodbye with the laundry, taken off the throne and folded away. She’d said goodbye when she opened up that letter.

There were more goodbyes to be said, probably. She still hadn’t touched his room, or his bank account. She still hadn’t gone to Dragontooth Island.  _ Small steps. _ It would be a lifetime of goodbyes. She softly touched the ring on the weathered string around her neck, rubbing her thumb over the warm, smooth gold. 

She wanted to tell him goodbye. She wanted to tell him she loved him, and that she always would. But he knew that, didn’t he? Perhaps that’s what mattered. 

Teiran pushed herself away from the bridge rails. “I should get going,” she said. “Death told me the barriers between here and the mortal plane are only going to be thin for so long. I suppose I can teleport out if I get stuck, but I’d rather not take the risk.”

Hazelmere nodded. “It’s been good to see you again, human. Your strength, and, dare I say, your knowledge, has grown.”

She cracked a smile. “Don’t go too far, Hazelmere. I’m just as stupid as I was two years ago.”

“Ha! Some things never change.” He slid off the stone wall, leaning on his staff as he landed on the bridge. “Stay well, Teiran. For all I grumble, I believe Guthix has chosen well. The world is in good hands.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll try not to fuck it up.”

“Ah. You’ll be fine,” he said, grinning. “Goodbye, human. It’s been an honour knowing you.”

“Goodbye, Hazelmere,” she said. “I hope you find peace being the rain, or what-have-you. It’s been an honour to know you, too. Thank you. For everything.”

He nodded, and closed his eyes. Slowly, his body began to fade away, as a look of bliss crossed his face.

“Human!” he squeaked, as he began to vanish. “One more thing!”

“What?” 

“My tree needs watering!”

And with those words echoing throughout an empty Lumbridge castle, the gnome disappeared.

She turned to the river, which still gargled away merrily. She was alone — at least, it seemed like she was. A faint breeze, from a place she couldn’t ascertain, tousled the curls of her hair. 

She turned, looking back towards where the lonely little boat sat on the shore of the river. Beyond it she could see pale mist, and the faint outline of the underworld bridge.

“I won’t say goodbye,” she said. “I don’t need to. The next thing you’ll hear from me is a hello. Ok? It might take awhile. But it’ll happen. I promise.”

The river babbled. She felt no breeze this time, though she imagined she could. She descended the banks, towards the boat. Towards home. Towards life.


	63. Final Destination

It was midnight when Teiran finally got back to Ardougne. She wordlessly slipped through the dark house, figuring that she could apologize to Marianne for neglecting the groceries in the morning.

When the morning arrived, however, Teiran found that the maid had yet to exit her room; when she tried the door, it was locked.

“She’s taken ill, madam,” Asmodeus said, appearing behind her.

“Bugger. Poor thing,” Teiran said, shaking her head. “She can sleep in today, then. You won’t be too short-handed?”

“The silver needs a polish, but I shall manage,” the demon said.

“Jolly good then. Let me know if she’s not feeling better by noon, I’ll nip by the apothecary on the way back.”

“Very well, madam,” Asmodeus said with a bow. “I shall contact you as you see fit.”

The first thing Teiran did when she stepped outside was teleport straight to Burthorpe, making a beeline for the slayer master north of the lodestone.

“Teiran!” Spria greeted. “What are you looking for today? I’m sure you’d rather fight something other than thirty bears — do you need a blessed hatchet?”

Teiran shook her head. Without a word, she reached into her bag and pulled out the folded paper. 

“What’s this?” Spria said, taking the letter and unfolding it. “Is Postie Pete taking the day o—”

She stopped mid sentence as she read over the sheet, her eyes widening. “Uh…”

She looked up. “This has got to be some sort of joke.”

“It’s not,” Teiran said. “It’s a long story. But it’s the real deal.”

Spria read over the letter, her eyes slowly filling with tears. When she finished, she folded it shut, her hands shaking. “Oh,  _ dad.” _

She sniffed, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I’m sorry, it’s probably not very professional to see a slayer master like this —”

“It’s fine. It really is.”

Without warning, Spria grabbed her in a hug. Teiran froze for a moment, before returning it, a little awkwardly.

“Thank you,” Spria mumbled. “You… you saw him, didn’t you?”   


“Yeah. For a little bit,” Teiran said. “It’s not something I can normally do, but… well. Guardian things, I guess.”

“How is he?” Spria asked, breaking away. “How did he look?”

“Happy. Unretired. I think he prefers it that way. He said his knees don’t ache anymore.”

“That always did bother him,” Spria said, cracking a smile. “I’m glad, then.”

“Yeah.” Teiran paused. “Um, I can’t make it a regular occurrence, erm, correspondence and…”

“No,” Spria said. “This is…” She shook her head, a little in disbelief. “This is better than anything I could’ve asked for. Thank you.”

Teiran bade the slayer master goodbye, pulling the brim of her hat a little lower over her eyes as she made her way to the Warrior’s Guild. There, she went to the doorman and had a long conversation. At one point, she glanced up to the worn statues above and smiled, before turning back to the gnome.

Then she went inside, and remained there for some time. 

Burthorpe was quiet, save for the usual bustle, the shouts of Major Mary Rancour drilling the newest batch of recruits, and, for one moment, the roaring laughter of a barbarian.

Teiran exited the guild, her brim still pulled low. Then, she reached into her bag and pulled out a glowing blue ring, which she stared at with some trepidation for a moment.

“Ah, hell,” she sighed. 

She braced herself as she teleported into the Ancient Caverns, the damp hitting her like a wet towel. The rushing water nearly drowned out her own thoughts — and the cries of the beasts in the cavern adjacent. 

_ Here goes nothing, _ she thought. “Kuradal. It’s been some —”

She stopped. Where Kuradal usually stood — and a bit beyond that, in fact — was now occupied by a balding, rather heavyset barbarian in tatty furs.

“Greetings,” he said. “Do you wish to partake in the violence that the Ancient Caverns have to offer?”

“Otto?” Teiran said, eyes widening. “What are you doing here?”

“Kuradal is indisposed, I’m afraid,” Otto said. “It seems she had pressing business up in the north — involving dragons, I have been told. She departed rather late last night and asked me to kindly take her guard during her sabbatical.”

“Alright, then. When will she be back?”

“I do not know.”

_ Damn. _ “Thank you for telling me. Are the monsters behaving?”

“Quite. Perhaps because they fear their mistress’s retribution when she returns,” the barbarian said. “In any case, it is rather refreshing to get out of the house. Nobody comes by to visit these days.”

“Don’t you have trainees drop in?”

He sniffed. “Hmph! Ever since they introduced tinderboxes on tool belts… these new adventurers are too good for poor old Otto and the traditions of his ancestors…”

She patted him on the arm. “I’m sure it’s just a dry spell,” she said. “There’s probably some fellow out in the Wilderness right now with nothing but some logs and a bow, thanking his lucky stars.”

She bade Otto goodbye, and headed up to the surface, pondering her next move. On a whim, she retrieved a set of runes and cast _ Contact _ ; however, when she tried to connect to Kuradal, the spell simply rang for about a minute before fizzling out.

_ Hmm. Must be somewhere with bad reception, _ she thought.  _ Eh, I’ll catch her later. _

Then she teleported to Falador, and had a brief conversation with Wyson about the state of the flowerbeds. When she was finished, she stood in front of a certain statue and stared at it for some time, saying nothing, before departing once more.

Teiran’s final stop was to a small, particular island south of Yanille, lush with vegetation and largish jungle spiders. There was a treehouse, too; unoccupied, and rapidly becoming more tree than house as the jungle began to take over.

There was an actual tree as well — hunched and silvery, in contrast to the tall palms that dotted the island, and strangely avoided by the jungle spiders.

Hazelmere has been right. It  _ did _ need watering. Teiran unhooked her enchanted watering can from her belt and doused the roots, taking care not to dislodge the weather-worn hat ensnared in the branches.

When she was through, she put the watering can down, sat back, and regarded the tree. 

_ One quiet day, _ she thought.  _ Tomorrow can be complicated.  _ Everything’s _ been too bloody complicated. One quiet day, where I process everything that happened yesterday without screaming, and then I can go back to the chaos. _

She fell back on the wild grass with a sigh, pulling her hat over her eyes to keep the sun out.  _ Just one day where the world isn’t in peril. That’s all I ask. _

Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar buzz in her ears, followed by the disembodied voice of a certain Lunar Isle Customer Support Lady.

“Call for you, dear,” the operator said. “It’s from a demon by the name of Asmodeus. I tried to tell him that the Infernal Realm isn’t within our coverage area, but —”

“Connect him, he’s on this plane,” Teiran said.  _ Damn changing spell plans… _

The line crackled, and the butler’s growl filled her ears.

“Madam,” he said. “I do not wish to distress you. But it appears that young Marianne has gone missing.”

Teiran bolted upright. “What? She was in her room…”

But she hadn’t seen her, had she?  _ Idiot! _

“I was concerned when she didn’t rise at eleven, nor respond to my knockings,” Asmodeus said. “Though I did not pry into her room, I did find a rudimentary rope of bedsheet hanging from her window, with which I believe she absconded.”

“Are the wards still intact?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Damnit,” she muttered. “Yesterday was Ivanday, she usually goes out on those nights… she must have snuck out then…”

She shook her head. “I’m coming right over.”

“Yes, madam. I will meet you by the entrance.”

Before the spell even fizzled she was digging around in her bag for runes; a moment later, she let out a curse, having come up with one earth short of a house teleport. 

_ Guess it’s the lodestones, then, _ she thought, as she hastily scribbled out a chalk circle on the ground. 17 seconds later she was at the outskirts of East Ardougne, and sprinted as fast as she could to the city center. 

Asmodeus was waiting by the portal when she arrived. “Madam —” 

“Have you seen any sign of her?” She asked. 

“No, madam. I cannot get into her room, either. She seems to have locked it rather thoroughly.”

“Ok. You search the market — the merchants might have seen her nip out the portal. I’ll see if I can find anything inside.”

The demon. “Straight away, madam.”

She ducked into the portal, frantically scanning the parlour for any sign where Marianne had gone. It had been just as she’d left it that morning; spotless. 

Teiran glanced over to the throne room, and considered something. She ran over to the oddly-coloured floor panel and pulled the lever, landing on a pile of very musty hay with a muffled grunt. 

A quick scan of the dungeon yielded nothing, save for a half-chewed set of adamant platelegs that made her heart pang for a moment. Shaking her head, she pulled on a torch sconce and hauled herself up the ladder that popped out, muttering curses under her breath. 

When she reached the surface, she headed for the stairs, sprinting up and straight towards the maid’s room. She tested the door — it was, of course, locked, just as Asmodeus said. She fished a lockpick out of her pack and fiddled around for a moment, swearing up a storm when it snapped.

_ Of course she’d know how to pick-proof a door. She’s an expert. _ With that, Teiran turned away from the door and headed down the hall… 

Before charging right at it, slamming into the heavy oak with all her might. 

The door splintered, and then gave way under her. Briefly mourning a fine bit of construction gone to waste, she frantically looked around the bedroom.

Marianne kept her space sparse, unlike her employer. The only pieces of furniture were the bed and the desk, as well as a cabinet full of miscellaneous knick knacks and jewelry — trophies from thefts she was particularly proud of. 

Notably, the desk was littered with envelopes and papers, all covered in writing. She picked up an envelope at random. It had no recipient, though the address was marked for Port Sarim. 

_ Bingo.  _ She stuffed the envelope in her pocket and headed downstairs.

“Asmodeus!” She called as she stepped through the house portal. “I think I found where she’s gone! We need to head to —”

Her foot kicked something, and she looked down.

At her feet lay an ornate, silver box — skillfully sculpted in a geometric pattern. It was a visage of a dragon’s head, its maw open as though to breathe fire. In its teeth was a small metal plate, bearing her name. 

Teiran picked the box up. The metal was warm under her fingers, and seemed to vibrate slightly. Something within rattled. 

She began to lift the lid, and then considered something. She hurriedly stashed it in her pack and dashed over to the zoo, ignoring the shouts of the zookeepers as she vaulted over the fence to the unicorn enclosure and landed right in the middle of the fairy ring, muttering the code under her breath.

Moments later the damp heat of Mos Le’Harmless hit her as she appeared on a small island south of the island. A couple of jungle horrors howled at her from across the water, but she ignored them, instead taking the box out her pack again and setting it on the ground. 

She stepped away as far as she could, and pulled out the Measure. Balancing the pole in her hands, and bracing herself, she carefully lifted the lid. 

Defying expectations, it failed to explode into tiny bits. Still tense, she gave the box an experimental poke. It rattled, but otherwise didn’t move.

She waited another five minutes, just to be sure. 

Nothing interesting happened. 

She put away the Measure and approached the box. As she did, she noticed the glint of glass within it, and saw that it was a jar, filled with a dry, black substance. 

She picked it up, examining the contents. It was ash, it seemed, crumbled and powdery. As she turned the jar over in her hands, something red caught her eye. 

A rumpled, familiar butler’s bow tie.

_ Fuck.  _ She threw the jar into her bag and ran over the footbridges to the main island, dodging blows from jungle horrors as she headed towards the port, making a beeline towards the general store. 

She slammed a fistful of coins on the counter. “Give me a goat.”

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow, arcing over his patched eye. “What do ya be needin’ a goat fer?”

“Summoning a demon. Goat. Now.”

The shopkeeper saw her expression, and nodded. “Aye, aye!”

He went around the back, and brought back an ancient, foul-smelling goat on a rope. She wordlessly took it, and, leaving the money, headed around the back. 

There was the sound of a chalk box rattling, and then several, complicated-sounding scratches. Then a noise of glass breaking, and a goat bleating in terror.

Something flashed, and the air smelled briefly and horribly of sulfur.

Asmodeus rubbed his head, blinking in the daylight. “Forgive me, madam,” he growled, his demonic voice unsteady. “It seems I became rather indisposed for a moment.”

“It’s fine. Are you alright?” she asked, wiping goat blood off of her platelegs. “What happened?”

“I am not sure. I recall exiting the house, and the world being quite dark. Something struck me, and I believe that caused me to disincorporate. At my next moment of awareness, I was sitting in this stockyard, you having so kindly revived me.”

He stood up and straightened out his uniform. He patted his pockets, and pulled out a scrap of scorched paper, his infernal face twisted in confusion. 

“Strange,” he said. “I do not recall possessing this.”

“Let me see.” She took the paper from his claws and scrutinized it. It bore nothing more than a set of coordinates —  _ 16 degrees, 5 minutes north; 32 degrees, 22 minutes east. _

“Godsdamnit,” she muttered. “Someone’s trying to send me a message. And that someone is into twisted Treasure Trails…”

“Do you believe this is the individual behind young Marianne’s disappearance?”

“Do elves leave traps in the woods?”

“Point taken, madam.”

“Ok,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You head home. Ok? Go through the Abyssal plane if you need to. Stay in the dungeon and contact me as soon as you hear trouble.”

“Yes, madam.”

The demon teleported away in a puff of brimstone. Terian scrutinized the coordinates for a moment, before sighing and pulling out a heavily-gridded map.

_ No time to muck about with a sextant, _ she thought.  _ I’ll just do this the quick and dirty way.  _

She ran a finger down the gridline.  _ Sixteen, thirty-two…. Huh. Daemonheim. Is Zamorak behind this? No, it wouldn’t be his style. And Marianne knows her way through a Kinshra… _

She ruffled around in her bag and retrieved a rather battered Ring of Kinship, giving it a shake before letting the teleport kick in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No goats were harmed in the making of this chapter.


	64. The Cellar Song

The dry cold of pseudo-Wilderness wasn’t much better than the damp heat of the jungle; however, Teiran paid it no mind as she jogged past the Fremennik camps towards her destination.

Said destination turned out to be a small, rocky outcrop, in which an iron trapdoor was situated. Teiran kicked it; it rattled, but otherwise revealed nothing.

“Hmmm.” She lifted it with the tip of her boot. The iron hatch squealed open, revealing a patch of darkness in the ground, leading down to parts unknown. 

Teiran dug around in her pack and retrieved a bundle of papers with keys printed on them. Setting it alight with her tinderbox, she dropped the flaming bundle down the hole; it fell for about half a minute before landing, flickering faintly on an unseen floor, slightly blocked by the outlines of a series of rungs bolted to the wall.

_ At least there  _ is _ a floor, _ she thought to herself. With a sigh, she retrieved a bullseye lantern, lit it, and tied it to her belt. Then, cracking her knuckles, she reached down to the ladder and began to descend.

* * *

It took Teiran several minutes to reach the bottom; each time she heard a noise, be it this hiss of falling dust or the howl of some distant wind, she stopped and listened. Her makeshift torch had all but died out when her feet landed on the ground, and even the strong light of the lantern failed to make a dent in the darkness.

A sharp creak made her jump, and she grabbed at her weapon. She looked up to the source of the noise; the iron door had seemingly shut itself closed, cutting away the weak pool of light from the surface above.

_ Typical, _ she thought, as she ventured forward.  _ Next thing I know, whatever made this place is going to complain I didn’t take my shoes off at the entrance. _

She shone her light over the walls. They seemed similar to the ones down in Daemonheim, carved and intricate. However, she couldn’t discern which floor they could be from. 

She proceeded with caution, carefully watching for movement in the cold darkness.  _ I swear to gods, if there’s a ferret puzzle in here, I’m going to have a —  _

A low growl came from behind her. She whipped around, lashing out her whip in response, and then froze. Two reptilian eyes, glowing with internal fire, stared at her; and one reptilian mouth, barely containing the inferno behind its glittering teeth, opening to greet her.

“FUC—”

The fire bloomed outward, consuming her. She screamed, expecting to feel heat and pain; but instead she felt cold; and her vision went dark, and she sensed and saw nothing.

* * *

Teiran woke up.

The bed she was on was shitty. Undeniably, incredibly shitty. It felt like a sheet draped over a set of springs.

She checked. It was.

Teiran sat up with a groan, and surveyed her surroundings. She was in a tiny, cramped cell, it seemed; barely large enough to contain the bed she was on, as well as a toilet and a sink. Thankfully, her armor was still on her, as were her weapons, which struck her as a little odd.

She glanced outside the enclosure. Outside, she could see a scaly, winged creature, its wings folded and its back to her, standing guard near the passage to the cell block.

_ Is that…? _

“So they nabbed you as well, huh? How long are you in for?”

The voice was slithering. Familiar. Teiran gritted her teeth as she turned to the source of it, from the cell to her left. 

Sliske lay on the bed, smiling greasily. His normally-ornate robe has been confiscated, and replaced with a raggedy bit of sackcloth. Somehow he had managed to jury-rig part of this into a collar, though it looked rather more sad and floppy than anything else.

Teiran blinked in disbelief. “What?”

“You know what I’ve learned in the course of using the Stone of Jas?” Sliske said. The guard growled. “Why, it arouses the ire of the dragonkin. Who would have thunk! You should have warned me about that, you know. Then we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“What?”

Sliske rolled his eyes. “Oh, you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you? We. Have. Been. Captured. By. The. Dragon. Kin. And considering the involvement that you and I have had with their precious little boiled egg, it’s probably sooner rather than later that we both end up as well-done mincemeat if we don’t get out of here.”

Teiran shook her head. “What?!”

Sliske groaned. “Do I need to pull up a quest guide for you? I think the objective is pretty clear. Hey, why are you laughing?”

Teiran had sat down on the bed, shaking. “You,” she wheezed, barely able to get words out between guffaws. “You went through all this… you dicked about with the Stone of Jas… and the dragonkin caught up to you… and now you’re in a tiny little cell, wearing a  _ potato sack.  _ My gods, it’s like Wintumber came early…”

Sliske gave her a hard look. “Ha, ha. Very droll,” he said. “Oh, look at the poor mahjarrat, far fallen from his prime. The longer you laugh, the less time we have to escape, and the sooner we’ll end up on the menu.”

Teiran wiped the tears from her eyes. “Oh, you’re  _ hilarious. _ I’d sooner go into a business partnership with a flower game gambler than work with  _ you. _ ” She paused, her smile fading. “And I know it’s a ruse, Sliske. Give it up. You can quit playing pantomime.”

“But the Dragonkin —!”

“Oh, shut it. If there were any dragonkin involved, they would have burned me to a crisp the minute I set foot on Daemonheim. Boxes? Threats? Really? Just get on with whatever it is you’re scheming.”

Sliske pouted. “Are you sure? I had a plan, you know. A rather good one. It involved bricks. And loo-acid.”

“Ask me again and I’m garroting you with a bedsheet.”

“Fiiiiine.” Sliske rolled his eyes. He snapped his fingers, and the cell block vanished, replaced by a red-hued, rough-hewn chamber, illuminated by sconced torches that lined the walls. The firelight cast eerie shadows in the darker corners of the room, which seemed to move on their own.

Sliske was back in his usual purple garb,a smug grin plastered on his face. Teiran grabbed her whip and her sword, preparing for an attack.

“You’ve got six seconds to tell me what’s going on,” she growled. “Before I forcibly remove your head from your body.”

“Touchy, touchy!” Sliske chided. “We haven’t even gotten to the main event yet.”

He snapped his fingers again. A glowing marquee appeared over his head, flashing in black and purple, bearing the words:

THE PRICE IS WIGHT

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!” Sliske said, a megaphone having appeared in his hand. “Boys and girls! Attending undead of all ages! We now bring you the greatest show on RuneScape!”

Several small fireworks exploded next to him, filling the room with acrid smoke. Sliske grinned, bowing to an unseen audience. 

“And now, our main contestant for the day: The World Guardian!” 

He paused, presumably for applause. None came. He then extended the megaphone to Teiran. “How are you feeling today? We’re on the air, so mind the kiddies.”

Teiran unleashed a string of curses, and Sliske winced. 

“Ooooh,  _ language _ ! The RBFC is  _ not _ going to like that!” He shrugged. “Ah, well. We can always edit it out in post.”

Teiran swatted the megaphone away. “That’s it. I’m done. I’m going to punch you in the face, and then I’m  _ leaving. _ ”

“Oh, so soon?” Sliske raised an eyebrow. “Without your friends?”

He clapped his hands. The marquee and fireworks disappeared. To either side of him appeared two figures, wrapped in bonds of shadow. One wore a tattered maid’s outfit; the other, wearing shoulder plates and a battered Slayer’s cape. 

“Now,” Sliske said, grinning,” I’m sure Marianne to my right here has some things to say! It’s funny the things you pick up in Port Sarim. And Kuradal to my left here, well, when she came to these parts to look for dragons, she found other, rather _ nastier _ surprises.”

Teiran took a step back, her heart racing in her chest. “You can’t fool me,” she said. “Those are just illusions!”

“Oh,  _ really? _ ” Sliske said. “Tell us, Marianne. What did you cook for your dear employer for dinner last night? Answer honestly, or you’ll lose points! And a limb.”

He waved his hand, and the shadow around the maid’s mouth disappeared. She gasped, and colour returned to her face.

“Nothing, you numbskull,” she spat. “I’m off Ivanday nights.”

“Good answer!” Sliske laughed, as Teiran’s heart sank. “And you, Kuradal?”

As soon as the shadow vanished, Kuradal let out a string of curses in Kharazi. Sliske shook his head and tutted.

“At this rate, there aren’t going to be any networks that’ll take us at all. Where will all our sponsorships go?”

“Let them go!” Teiran roared. She charged towards the mahjarrat, only to meet an invisible wall, which bounced her away like rubber and sent her sprawling on the floor.

“You know, I had a feeling you’d try something like that,” Sliske said. “So I took the necessary precautions. Now! Here’s the deal:

“You play my little game. If you win, I give you the Staff of Armadyl. Oh, and the freedom of your compatriots. Try anything funny, though, and the hostages go bye-bye. Deal?”

He paused. “Oh, why am I even asking you? You’ll just say a bunch of nasty things again. That really does hurt my feelings, you know. So I’ll just get on with the show.”

He clapped his hands again, and he, Marianne, Kuradal, and the cavern vanished. Teiran felt herself tumble through the air, and she landed roughly on the stone floor of another room, well-lit and circular. Sliske’s laughter echoed throughout the chamber. 

“Good luck! Oh, and have fun getting out of here with that cute little chalk circle spell of yours,” he cackled. “This whole place is teleblocked. If you even try, you’re going to start getting random body parts in the mail.”

Teiran flashed a rude hand gesture, which sparked no response. With a sigh, she got up and brushed herself off, taking in the lay of the room. It was then that she noticed the greataxe-wielding wight standing in the middle, still as a statue. Waiting. 

She raised her sword. “Dharok? Are you going to fight me? Get it over with, then. I haven’t got much time.”

The wight, however, shook his head. Teiran gave him an odd look. 

“Erm, isn’t fighting anything that moves your  _ modus operandi? _ ” She waved her arms. “C’mon, I haven’t got all day.”

Dharok let out a dusty sigh, his shoulders sagging. “I have no wish to fight you,” he said, his voice dry and creaking and old-sounding. “The wretched Mahjarrat has returned my will to me. I don’t know why.”

Teiran’s eyes widened. “You can  _ talk _ ?”

“Aye,” the wight nodded. “Though Sliske has long held my tongue with his foul magic.”

“Oh.” She lowered her sword, though still kept it ready. “Er… this is rather awkward. Am I supposed to kill you?”

“I —” Dharok wheezed, beginning to reply. However, he was interrupted by a phantom blade slamming into his side, crashing into his armour with a ghostly clatter. The air around the wight shimmered, and became filled with the translucent appearrations of White Knights; silent but for the clinking of their armour and crash of their weapons.

Dharok groaned wretchedly, and swung his greataxe, cleaving the spectres in two with rage-driven efficiency. The ghosts disappeared, only to rematerialize once more, attacking the wight again with renewed fervour. 

Teiran leapt back, if only to keep out of the axe’s path, and swung her own sword through one of the ghosts. It dissipated, only to reform a few feet away and resume its assault on Dharok.

The wight swung his axe again and again, but the ghosts kept coming. Teiran did her best to ease the onslaught, but it did little to quell the tide.

After the umpteenth swing, in the brief respite that was to be had as the ghosts reformed, Dharok let out a sigh. 

“I never wanted this,” he said. “I never wanted to fight…. This is my penance. For what I’ve done to others… for my bullying. For my violence...”

“How long have you been dead?” Teiran asked, slashing a ghost out of the way.

“I do not know. Millennia.”

“Don’t you want to take a rest?”

“Yes.”

Teiran lowered her sword. “Then lay down your weapon.”

Dharok froze midswing. A small crowd of ghosts still surrounded him, beating against his armour. “What?”

“Put down the axe,” she said. “Let them kill you.”

“But…” he stuttered. “That… that would be madness…”

“Why would it be?” She walked over to him through the crowd of ghosts, which steadfastly ignored her. “You’ve died before.”

“But it was to those stronger than me….”

“Then why is this any different?”

Dharok mumbled something that she could not ascertain, his head bowed low. She patted him on the shoulder, as reassuringly as she could while minding the spikes.

“Dying isn’t bad,” she said, softly. “I’ve done it before, plenty of times. And in a lot more humiliating ways than this one.”

The wight looked at her, his glowing green eyes flickering and inscrutable under the dark of his helm. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” 

He sighed. Slowly, he lowered his axe. The ghosts kept attacking, their strikes landing true against him. He slowly sunk to his knees, becoming lost in a sea of white and metallic cacophony.

“I am…” he said. “Tired….”

There was the sound of metal hitting flesh, and Dharok collapsed. The ghosts disappeared, leaving behind only a still corpse, slumped on the floor.

“I am, too,” Teiran said, perhaps to herself. 

* * *

The flames blasted through the grate, searingly hot as Teiran barely dodged them. Had her hair been any longer the fire would have singed it; however, all it did was leave her with her with an unpleasant warmth on her back as she rolled to a stop. 

She straightened up, brushing herself off, and punched the wall in front of her. The ancient carved rock crumbled under her fist, revealing another empty corridor beyond.

“This bit’s safe, Ahrim,” she called behind her. “I’d say it’ll take another wall or two, but I think we’re near the end.”

The wight shuffled through the newly-made hole. Ahrim had said little through the ordeal, save for a grunt or a groan, and Teiran rather preferred it that way. 

She cracked her knuckles and squared herself up for the next hit.  _ Bloody mazes.  _

The day the Mysterious Old Man retired, she thought she’d never have to set foot in one of these damn things ever again. This particular trial, however, was proving her quite wrong.

She tried to imagine that the wall was Sliske’s face, and gave it a good strike, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the stone.

Sliske himself had remained quiet. To think he was off doing something else was too much to hope; if anything, he was probably watching from afar. And gloating, of course. That was a given. 

She tried not to think too much of where Marianne and Kuradal were, and instead resolved to put her mental energy into completing whatever trials lay ahead as fast as humanly possible. 

_ The fact he’s laying low is good, _ she thought, swinging her fist again.  _ If he wanted to do anything to the hostages, he’d make me watch. _

The wall crumbled under her fist, revealing a smallish room containing nothing but an ornate door. Teiran breathed a sigh of relief, shaking the dust off her knuckles.

“Alright, I think this is the bit where I move on.”

As she said this, she noticed a flash of white to her left. Briefly, she caught the image of a woman wearing druid garb appearing before her, vanishing nearly as quickly. Ahrim let out a strangled cry.

“Isolde?!” he shouted. “Wait —!” He reached out, and then collapsed to his knees, punching the ground. 

“Who’s she?”

“That… that…” he muttered. “ _ Harlot. _ Sliske is attempting to guilt me… this test was to be my ‘penace,’ I suppose...”

“How so?”

“Hmm. You would deserve to hear it, I suppose, for the services you have rendered to me…”

Ahrim explained. Teiran listened, and then nodded, slowly. 

“Ahrim,” she said. “I’m going to leave now. But I’m going to do you a favour first.”

She punched him, quite heartily, and with some satisfaction as she felt his nose shatter under her fist. Ahrim sputtered, clutching at his face and glaring at her with undead malevolence. 

“Wh’d wud thad for?” he stuttered.

“Being an ass.” She kicked the door down. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“No!”

“Oh, should I tell it to you again?” she said, turning around. Ahrim raised his hands defensively. 

“No! No! I, er, shall, uh, meditate, on what you’ve just taught me,” he said. “Quite long, in fact. Probably lying on the floor.”

“Good,” she said, turning back to the door. “And if it hasn’t sunk in, I’ll be back. With gauntlets.”

* * *

Teiran looked at the wight that hung, suspended, between the two god statues. She couldn’t see his expression under his helm, but she suspected it was one of abject misery. 

“Why do you put up with this stuff?” she asked. 

Verac let out a pained groan. “We have little choice in the matter,” he said. “Sliske holds dominion over us, and our souls. Thus, we are forced to waken again and again, fighting those who disturb us…”

“Damn. I haven’t really been much of a help, have I?”

Verac sighed. “It’s not so bad. There is a local from Burgh de Rott who has taken a liking to me. She sometimes leaves cake.”

“That’s… kind.”

“A small comfort,” Verac said. “Though I wish dearly for my and my brothers’ freedom…”

She looked to the statues anchoring the chains. Saradomin and Zamorak both looked down at him fiercely, carved to look as though they were pulling on the wight’s bindings, each as possessive as the other. 

“There’s a key…” Verac said. “In my chest…”

“Don’t bother.” She took out her sword, taking careful aim. “I’m not a surgeon. At least, not for the body.”

She swung the blade in a neat arc, slicing through the chains with a singular movement. Verac let out a sigh of relief as his body dropped to the floor. 

“Thank… you…”

She was about to reply when the floor opened beneath her, and sent her tumbling down to a place unknown. 

* * *

Teiran sat up with the groan, rubbing her now considerably-bruised backside. She wasn’t sure how far she’d fallen, but it had the mercy of being relatively soft.

She looked down. It was a pile of oversized detachable robe collars.

She leapt off the clothing with a noise of disgust, kicking it away as she uttered a curse. A quick scan of the room revealed that there was only one passageway out, leading towards a circular chamber. Still muttering curses, she headed towards it.

The next room contained nothing. No maze, no furniture, no aesthetically appropriate skeletons; nothing at all. 

Teiran looked up. The low ceiling contained no horrible big spiders waiting to drop down on her. In fact, there were no spiders whatsoever. Somehow, this was worse.

She stepped into the middle, waiting for the click of some hidden panel waiting to deposit her into a pit full of spikes. No such click occured. 

As an experiment, she took out her sword and waved it about, watching for something to jump out and attack. 

Nothing interesting happened.

Teiran sighed. “Can you get on with it?” she said testily. “I’ve got hostages to save and a mahjarrat to draw and quarter. I’m already quite on edge already, so unless you plan on giving me a tin of nuts with a spring-powered snake inside, you can skip the jumpscare.”

Nothing replied. She rolled her eyes. “Damn necromancer shadow bullshit…”

There was another passage across the way, its path dark. She flicked on a fire spell, and was about to step in when she felt cold steel against her neck. 

She froze, breathing as little as she dared. 

“If that’s you, Sliske, that’s not much your style,” she said. “If it’s one of you Barrows, I suggest you get on with it so I can kick your arse sooner.”

She felt whoever was behind her stiffen. “Miss?”

“Marianne? What...?” She considered something. “The first time I took you to Ardougne, what did you do?”

“Stole a silver ring from Lord Handelmort and gave it to the monkeys at the zoo, miss,” Marianne replied. “He had a row about that for a week, I recall. When’s the last time you’ve paid me, miss?”

Teiran thought for a moment. “It was Essianday a fortnight ago, wasn’t it? Or was it Twiblick? Damn, I might be a day late…”

“You are,” Marianne said, removing the metal from her throat. “Sorry I had to threaten you with a spoon, miss. It was all I had.”

“If you’d used a knife, you’d be in a lot more trouble,” Teiran said, turning around. “Are you alright? How did you get free?”

“I don’t know. It was me and Kuradal in some dark room for a span,” Marianne said. “Then that shadow bastard came along and fetched Kuradal away. There was one of those zombie fellows in there with me, just watching over, and I was trying to find some way to headbutt him from the chair when I saw the spoon, right by my foot. Wasn’t there before, I could have sworn, but I managed to kick it upwards. It was fairly simple from there gettin’ out of ropes from there, miss, knockin’ down the guard, and picking the lock out of there.”

“How did you get here, there?”

“Not entirely sure, miss. This whole mess is like a maze.”

“That’s Sliske for you,” Teiran muttered. “Well, I’m glad you’re safe. Here’s the plan: You stay here. I’ll mark the path along the way so I can find my way back to you. But if you see anything, you run. I’ll see what there is up ahead and fetch you when it’s clear.”

Marianne, however, shook her head. “I’m coming with you, miss.”

“Out of the question.” Teiran crossed her arms.”If Sliske caught you once, he can catch you again.”

“He has just a much a chance of catching me back here as he does out there,” Marianne said, crossing her arms. “Let me help you. You know I’m better at sneaking around picking locks than you are.”

“Do you know what’s out there?” Teiran said, gesturing to the dark passage. “Wights. Made from the bodies and souls of incredibly powerful Saradominist warriors, who have nursed their burning resentment for centuries, souped up on shadow magic from a megalomaniac immortal with a horrible sense of humour and two all-powerful wossnames. You’re safer back here.”

“I got out of that cell!” Marianne snapped. “I got through the guard! I found my way here to you! And now you’re telling me to stay behind? I might as well have stayed tied up!”

“Marianne, we need to think rationally here —”

“Oh, like you’re the one acting rationally, locking me in the house forever!”

Teiran clenched her fist. “If you hadn’t snuck out to go to Port Sarim to pickpocket merchants, then you wouldn’t be in this situation!”

“I wasn’t pickpocketing merchants, I was visiting Ling! And if you’d let me have the slightest ounce of freedom instead of being paranoid, then I wouldn’t have done it!”

“It was for your own sa— Wait. Who the hell is Ling?”

Marianne looked to the floor, her face scarlet, and mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“My girlfriend,” Marianne said. She looked up, her face still red. “And if you have a problem with that —”

“No, no! It’s fine. Er. I’m happy for you,” she said awkwardly. “Erm. How did you meet?” 

“Port Sarim,” she said, relaxing by a degree. “I tried to pick her pocket. She tried to kill me.”

“That’s a bit of an overreaction.”

“She’s an assassin, miss. It comes with the territory. Anyhow, after I kneecapped her and she chased me into an alleyway, we got talking. Um. It’s been about three months, miss. I really do like her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Marianne paused. “You….” she said. You were caught up in everything else. Saving the world, questing… you’d barely come home. You’d be too tired to say anything. You don’t tell me about your adventures any more.”

Teiran was about to throw a retort, but then she stopped herself. 

“I don’t,” she said, slowly. “Do I?”

Marianne shook her head. “No, miss.”

Teiran leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh. “There’s a lot I haven’t told you, have I?”

“No.” Marianne leaned beside her, though a little more primly. “And you don’t always have to tell me everything.”

“And nor do you, I suppose.”

“Mmm. We’ve both changed, miss.”

“Yeah.” She smirked. “You’re not the beggar kid I picked up off the streets, huh?”

“No, miss.” She smiled slightly. “And you’re not the adventurer so desperate for help that she hired a pickpocket for a maid.”

“I wasn’t  _ that  _ desperate.”

“How many maids did you go through before me?”

“Oh, hush.” She paused. “Marianne…”

“Yes?”

“I want you to be safe.”

“I know, miss.”

“I can’t… I can’t lose you. Not you, too.”

“I know.” Marianne’s voice was just a whisper, low and reverent. “But you can’t keep me locked up forever, miss. That’s why you taught me to fight. Wasn’t it?”

Teiran nodded, slowly. “Yeah.” She hefted herself off the wall, cracking the stiffness out of her neck. She then rummaged around in her bag, pulling out a dragon dagger and offering it, handle-first, to the maid.

“Sliske isn’t to be underestimated,” she said. “The Barrows aren’t, either. I can talk shit to them all I want, but if you see them, keep your distance. If you hear weird laughter, or see weird shadows, get away. And don’t trust anything. He’s a master of illusion, and he’ll use that to his advantage. Got it?”

Marianne took the knife, wielding it ease, and nodded. 

“Good.” Then without warning, Teiran grabbed Marianne in a tight hug. Marianne tensed.

“Are you alright, miss?” she said muffedly. 

“Perfectly fine,” Teiran said. “Just coming to terms with the fact that you’re not a kid anymore. Kneecapped an assassin, huh?”

“She’ll never let that one go,” Marianne laughed. “You should meet her, miss.”

“I should,” Teiran said, breaking away. “We’ll get out of this, ok?”

“Yes, miss.”

With that, they both turned to the tunnel, weapons in hand, and faced the darkness that stretched ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Ling and Marianne's first date, they broke into Lord Handelmort’s house and stole all of his Oriental tapestries.
> 
> For their second date, Ling taught Marianne to make gumbo and the correct way to disable someone by cutting their Achilles’ tendons.


	65. Pathways

Teiran and Marianne remained silent as they made their way through the dark hallway; the only sound came from the quiet clinks in Teiran’s armour, and the soft crackle of the fire spell that danced in her hand. 

Gradually, a light at the end of the tunnel faded into view, weakly illuminating the last few feet of the passageway. As they approached, Teiran saw another circular room, ringed by what looked to be old stone arena seats, lifted halfway up over the room and supported by several stone pillars. 

She stopped before she reached the threshold, Marianne hovering close behind her. She couldn’t see anything in the arena, or in the dark underside of the seats that ringed it; however, her skin still prickled with unease.

“Stay on the perimeter,” Teiran said, her voice low. “See if there’s an exit. If you do, wait for me. If I die, leave. Got it?”

Marianne nodded, and slipped off to the side. Teiran switched from her sword to the whip, and marched to the middle of the ring, blinking blearily in the light. 

She scanned the seats, all of which were unoccupied. The balcony above, however, was draped with purple curtains and housing a single, empty throne, lined with crushed indigo velvet.

Teiran rolled her eyes, and counted under her breath.  _ 3… 2… 1… _

A puff of smoke appeared in the seat, clearing to reveal Sliske, wearing a loose purple toga draped over his shoulders. To his sides was a pair of wights, fanning palm leaves. 

“You know what the old Empire actually got right?” Sliske said. “The circuses. Oh, I just  _ adored _ them. The pomp! The circumstance! The bloodshed! The candied nuts! It didn’t matter if it was a gladiator battle or feeding a bunch of Saradominists to the lions. I wouldn’t miss it for a thing. Ah, those were the days…”

“Are you going to have me fight all the Barrows at once or what?” Teiran said testily. 

“Far from it!” Sliske said. “Why, you’d probably just kill them all again. There’s no fun in that. Where’s the  _ drama? _ What I have in mind is something  _ completely _ different.”

He snapped his fingers. Kuradal, disheveled-looking and weilding a rather heavy-looking sword, materialized in front of her.    


“ _ NENDA KAJITOMBE _ , YOU SHADOW-FUCKING  _ KUMA NINA _ !” she roared. “OR I’LL —” She looked around. “Teiran?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

Sliske grinned. “She’s here to fight you, of course! The last one standing gets to leave the room. No need for killing, of course. A permanently-disabling injury will do. May I suggest severing the hamstrings?”

Teiran gave him a hard look. “No.”

“Oh, come ooooooooooooooooon,” Sliske whined, slouching in his throne. “Fight eachother! Aren’t you angry with one another? Haven’t you not spoken in years?”

Kuradal raised an eyebrow. “Your point?”

Sliske let out a heavy sigh, and rummaged around in the recess of his robes, pulling out a vial of dark liquid. He threw it into the ring, and it landed with a dull  _ clink _ , rolling to a rest at the edge of Teiran’s foot. 

“There!” he shouted. “An aggression potion! That should be enough to get you started, right? I’m not letting you leave until one of you is totally incapacitated!”

Teiran looked to Kuradal. “I think I might have a card game on me somewhere.”

“I’m good for anything but  _ Go Fish. _ ”

“Uuuuuuuuuuugh,” Sliske groaned, rising off the chair. “I can’t take this any more. Brutus? Call me when they start trying to kill one another. I’ll be off setting up the maze.”

The wight to his right grunted. Sliske snapped his fingers, and disappeared in a puff of smoke. 

Kuradal narrowed her eyes. “Is he gone?”

Teiran half-shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past him to linger, but usually when he makes a dramatic exit like that he doesn’t come back.”

Kuradal lowered her sword, relaxing. Teiran, however, still held her whip at ready. 

“What was the first slayer assignment you ever gave me?”

“Aberrant spectres,” Kuradal replied. “You complained quite fiercely about getting the smell out of your clothes afterwards, if I recall correctly.”

“Three godsdamn weeks,” Teiran muttered, lowering the whip. “Absolutely  _ not _ worth the herb drops. Poor Marianne, I think I had to pay her double that month…. Speaking of which…”

She scanned the perimeter of the room, fear starting to creep in more and more as she saw nothing underneath the seats.  _ Sliske didn’t see her, did he? Then where…? _

The muffled sound of something heavy dropping to the floor interrupted her thoughts. She looked up to the balcony, where the maid was carefully heaving the body of a wight over the edge, a knife sticking out of the back of its skull. Below it lay the body of its companion, similarly indisposed.

“Figured you’d want some privacy, miss,” she said primly, letting the body fall to the ground. 

“Much appreciated,” Teiran said letting herself relax. Still, she found herself scanning the room anxiously, watching for anything that moved or smoked or flickered.

“I think you’re being a little paranoid,” Kuradal said, following her gaze.

“Well, how could I  _ not _ ?” Teiran snapped. “Sliske’s done nothing but trick and confuse and lie to me. He’s been on my arse since the day Guthix dropped dead, and I haven’t had a godsdamn moment of rest then.”

“Then we get to the source!” Kuradal slammed her fist to her palm. “We fight him straight-on. He looks like a weakling — one hit, and he’ll fall like an icefiend to a fireball.”

Teiran shook her head. “He won’t let me even land a punch. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“Perhaps not hard enough, then.”

Teiran clenched her jaw. “Oh, like you did any better,” she growled. “Tell me, then. Did you just happen to trip into his dungeon on the way to the slayer cave?”

Kuradal crossed her arms. “I was searching for the dragonkin,” she said. “Sliske laid a trap for me — a clever one, I’ll grant. But not one I’ll fall for again.”

“You’re on a fool’s errand,” Teiran said darkly. “I haven’t seen them for ages. And they’re not to be trifled with.”

“Don’t mock me!” Kuradal spat. “Are you forgetting that I’m a slayer master? They’re nothing more bipedal dragons.”

“Bipedal dragons that killed Lucien with little trouble,” Teiran said. “And Lucien —”

“I’m aware,” Kuradal said, her tone suddenly low. “But that was then. I’ve become stronger. Why you haven’t been chasing after them, I don’t —”

“Because I’ve been running around protecting all of godsdamn Gielinor, is why!” Teiran shouted, gesturing to the room in general. There was that knife again; digging in her arm, goading her. The dam of her anger was nearing capacity, and she felt the base begin to crack.

“Is that what you’ve been doing for the past two years, Kuradal?” Teiran continued. “I’ve been spending half that time babysitting the gods and making sure this planet doesn’t get torn apart by cosmic entities or whatever!”

“Guthix gave you power, didn’t he?” Kuradal said. “Why don’t you use it to find them and end them?”

“Why the hell would I want to?”

“Hmph. You’ve forgotten what happened on the plateau, then.”

“No. I haven’t.” She clenched her fist. “Not in a million years, Kuradal.”

“Then you know that the dragonkin are a living reminder of our failure. Our vengeance, robbed. Lucien —”

“Is dead. To hell with him. I’m done with revenge.” She shook her head. “It didn’t make me feel any better then. I doubt it would now.”

Kuradal narrowed her eyes. “You’ve grown soft.”

“No. Just… tired. Really. Fucking. Tired.” She sighed. “Why are you after the dragonkin, Kuradal?”

“Reven —”

“Not that. Why are you  _ really _ after them?”

Kuradal avoided her gaze, her hand curled tightly around the hilt of her sword. “You know why.”

“Killing them isn’t going to bring Lucien back. Or your father.”

“It’ll prove that I’m not a  _ failure _ , at least,” Kuradal snapped. “I let him down when I let those… flying  _ vermin _ steal my kill. I won’t let it happen again.”

“He doesn’t think you’re a failure.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“He told me.”

“He — what?” Kuradal froze, confusion crossing her face. “How did you…?”

“It’s a… long story,” Teiran said carefully. “I had to go down to the Underworld, ok? I don’t entirely understand how it works, but… I saw your dad down there.” 

Kuradal slowly shook her head. “No, it can’t be…”

“Kuradal, it was him. I’m pretty sure of that. He called you… um, sorry, I don’t know Kharzai very well — I think it was chui?”

“ _ Chui.  _ Yes,” Kuradal said. “Leopard. He used to call me that, as a child.” She closed her eyes and turned away. “You really did see him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. He’s doing well. Waiting for your mum.” She paused. “He wanted me to tell you — you’re not a failure. He said he’s proud of you. Immeasurably.”

Kuradal shook her head. “He didn’t know —”

“He did. I told him. He figured you didn’t take it well. But that doesn’t change how he feels about you.”

Kuradal didn’t respond. Instead, she looked to the sword in her hand, and didn’t speak for a moment. Then, slowly, she took a breath, and released it. 

“Teiran,” she said, looking up. Her eyes glistened with tears, though they did little to mitigate their fierceness. “Thank you. What you… what my father told you. It’s good to hear. After all this time.” She smightly, slightly, and sadly. “I will not give up on my path to end the dragonkin. From that, I can’t be swayed.”

Teiran smiled slightly in return. “I didn’t think as such.”

“Ha! They are a menace. And they are quarry that no slayer master can pass up,” Kuradal paused. “Perhaps… ah, never mind.”

Teiran regarded her carefully.  _ Small steps, _ she thought. They weren’t shouting at each other any more, which was a start. 

Turning away, she scanned the perimeter of the room, looking for signs of movement. “In the meantime,” she said, “we’ve got to find a way out of here. And deal with Sliske.”

“Yes.” The slayer master’s expression turned serious. “He can only be stopped if we strike him directly.”

“He’s got the power of two wossnames behind him, Kuradal.”

“So did Lucien. And you still managed to punch him in the face.” She grinned. “We just need to stop dancing around him.”

Teiran, however, shook her head. “With Sliske, all you  _ can _ do is dance. Trying to hit him is like trying to nail a jelly to a tree.”

“Then we need to get under his skin,” Kuradal said. “Made him angry. Let the pyrefiend roar, and then be ready with a bucket of water…”

“ _ Hmph _ ,” she huffed. “In any case, our first step should be getting out of here. Preferably without either of us having to get kneecapped.” She scanned the room again. “Where the hell did Marianne go, in any case?”

“Miss!” She heard a voice call out to her, from the far side of the arena. “I think I’ve found something!”

Teiran and Kuradal hurried over, weapons still in hand. “Is it too much to hope it’s an escape hatch?” Teiran said, as she reached the maid, who was standing by a nondescript bit of wall.

Marianne shook her head. “Sorry, miss. But this might be the next-best thing.” She kicked a stone at the bottom of the wall. With a barely-audible rumble, a section of the stone shifted, and pulled into the floor, revealing an iron gate that barred a dark passage beyond.

“Nice!” Teiran grinned. “Is it locked?”

“Was, miss.” She pushed the gate, and it silently swung inward. “Took me about three hairpins, but all’s well that ends well, I suppose.”

“You’re a gem, Marianne,” Teiran said, shaking her head in disbelief. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably spend a lot of time kicking the walls, miss.”

“We all have our methods.” She flicked a fire spell in her hand again, peering into the dark passage beyond. “Right. Sliske probably doesn’t want us to see this next bit, so stay on guard.”

Kuradal summoned a fire spell of her own. “We can handle him.”

“I’m not hedging any bets,” Teiran said darkly, as she headed forward. “Just stay behind me, ok? If anything happens, we can circle back and reorganize.”

The trio made their way through the passage, the twin flames flickering off the roughly-hewn walls. They said nothing, simply watching and listening in the encroaching dark as they made their way forward.

Then: “There’s something ahead,” Kuradal said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Teiran let her fire spell flicker out, and raised her whip. “Can you see anything?”

“No. Just… purple?”

“What?”

They got closer. Kuradal was right; the light that spilled from the doorway ahead was, indeed, purple-tinged, accompanied by the acrid smell of chemicals and a faint bubbling noise.

Teiran cautiously poked her head through the doorway. Like the arena, it was circular, though considerably more cramped. It was dominated by a wide table, cluttered with liquid-filled vials that hissed and bubbled, as well as a floating globe, orbited by geometrical shapes. Several chalkboards lined the walls, scrawled with notes and alchemical circles. Where there was space, there were several crammed bookshelves, stuffed full of papers and battered books.

“A lab?” Kuradal said, stepping forward. “What’s in here that would possibly help us?”

“A map, maybe,” Teiran said. “Or at least some dirt. Anyone up for some ransacking?”

The next several minutes were filled with the steady rustle of papers, as Kurdal and Marianne rifled through the bookshelves scattered throughout the room. Teiran inspected the chemicals on the table, and found nothing remotely recognizable. 

“Dihydrogen monoxide?” she muttered, picking up a vial of clear liquid. “Warning: Deadly if inhaled. Do not leave around children, rubium, or Zemouregal. Hmmm…”

She turned to Marianne, who was rapidly building a fortress of books around her as she searched. “Any luck?”

“Nothing but rude drawings, miss,” she said, viciously snapping a journal shut. She grabbed another one from the shelf and consulted the cover. “This might be useful.  _ The Fusty Kethsian Wen —” _

Teiran snatched the book from the maid’s hands and threw it over her shoulder. “Trust me. You wouldn’t want to read that one.”

She turned to Kuradal. “Nothing yet, either?”

“Not particularly. This whole stack is dedicated to software piracy. Whatever that is.” She fished around in the jumble. “I thought I saw your name in this one, but it seems to be mostly nonsense.”

Teiran took the book and skimmed it, her eyes resting on one passage for a moment. She then closed it, shaking her head. “Not much use,” she said, tossing it to the side. “It’s just notes from some play he’s writing.”  _ And who the hell is Xau-Tak, anyways? _

“Miss, here. This one’s on souls.”

Teiran took the battered book and read it through. “ _Bleugh_ ,” she ,uttered, shaking her head. “Unpleasant. Hopefully he’s not getting any ideas.” She sighed. “Keep looking. I’ll keep poking around.”

She circled the room, briefly assessing the runic circles scrawled on the chalkboard, unable to discern their meaning. As she passed by, a small gap, unencroached by a shelf, caught her eye. She pushed one of the chalkboards to the side, revealing a small purple cloth covering a section of the wall. 

She pulled it aside. Behind it was a small blue crystal, glittering, and vibrating with a faint hum. 

“Hmmm,” she muttered. She poked it with the tip of her sword. 

Nothing interesting happened. 

“ _ Hmmmmmmmmm. _ ” Cautiously, carefully, she reached forward, and brushed its surface with her fingertips.

The hum grew louder, enough to fill her ears. She immediately pulled her hand away, but the sound persisted, increasing in intensity. Strange voices filled her head, and her vision swam, as she felt a prickle on her palm…

* * *

_ “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”  _

_ The mahjarrat looked admiringly at the stone before him, crackling with power. Though he was alone in the room, there was a sense of heaviness; a presence, unseen and domineering, hovered. He grinned, his mask-like face drawing into an easy leer. _

Beauty?

_ Its voice was quiet, yet roared with susurrus. A million raindrops falling. A million grains of sand, hissing in the wind. Its voice was a void; silence that created presence by drowning out all other sound.  _

I

Do

Not

Know

_ It paused. _

Or

Care

_ “Oh come now,” Sliske said. “That's not true. Beauty makes the world bearable; without it, life is grey and empty. It evokes pure emotion. True beauty can bring empires to ruin or inspire the most evil men to heroic deeds!” _

Irrelevant.

_ “Ah, well.” The Mahjarrat shrugged. “The time is drawing near. All the gods will gather, and fight over the artefact.” _

When

_ “Soon, soon.” _

I 

Await

It

_ “Oh, of course. And it will come.” Sliske grinned. “After all, I live to serve….” _

* * *

Teiran threw herself back from the crystal, landing on her bum in her haste. The crystal stopped humming; then abruptly, its glow faded and died, leaving behind a dull rock in the alcove.

“Miss!” Marianne cried, rushing over. “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” Teiran said distractedly, shaking out the buzz that lingered in her ears. “Just… uuugh…”

“What was it?”

“Some illusion mumbo-jumbo,” she said, trying not to think about the voice that still crawled in her head. “Nothing to worry about. Have you found anything new?”

“Er…” Marianne avoided her gaze. “Sort of?”

Teiran got up. “What do you mean?”

“Um, you mind want to see for yourself…”

Teiran turned around. Kuradal clutched a single, badly-bound notebook, her expression grim. Wordlessly, she handed it to Teiran. 

Flipped through it, scanning over the scrawled text. 

[ _ I have changed the world. I have taken the status quo and I have smashed it to pieces and scattered the shards across Gielinor.... _ ](https://runescape.wiki/w/Transcript:Sliske%27s_Ramblings)

As she continued to read, a look of concern grew in her expression — soon turning to disgust. 

When she reached the end, she covered her mouth with her hand, her face now faintly green.

“I think,” she said, lowering the book, “I’m going to be sick.”

“Do you need a glass of water, miss?”

“No,” Teiran shook her head. “I need to find a certain mahjarrat and throw him into a meat grinder…”

“Sliske is plotting something,” Kuradal said. “Something involving the gods.”

“And me,” Teiran said, the sickly feeling of bile still rising in her throat. “And it’s been that way from the beginning….”

_ How long? Since I became the World Guardian? Since before? Has he always been in the shadows? Watching?  _

_ Sliske, what  _ are _ you planning? _

She shook these thoughts out of her head, still unable to get rid of the taste of vomit in her mouth. “You were right, Kuradal. No more dancing. We attack him. Straight-on, wossnames or no.”

“Then we make him come to us,” Kuradal said. “What would be the fastest way to get his attention?”

“Hmmmm.” She looked around the room, with its chalkboards and book stacks and table full of experiments, and got an idea. 

She rummaged around her bag and produced a great quantity of fire and air runes, as well as a steam battlestaff. “What’s the strongest fire spell you’ve got?”

“Fire surge, of course,” Kuradal said, confusedly. “But what —”

“Can you still bare-hand cast?”

“Of course.”

“Great. Last question. Which wall do you like least?”

Kuradal followed her gaze, the look of confusion replaced by horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Do you think I give a flying brine rat’s arse about destroying Sliske’s hideout?”

“No, I just —”

“What?”

“It’s a little reckless, miss,” Marianne cut in. 

Teiran grinned, and gave the steam staff a shake. It bubbled and hissed to life, heat radiating from its end in tiny waves. “Reckless,” she said, “is my middle name.”

“I thought it was Alexandrine, miss.”

“That, too.” She gave Kuradal a handful of runes. “Are you in or not?”

“Just a moment.” The slayer summoned a ball of fire in her hand with a practiced click of her fingers. “Do you plan on holding on to those notes?”

“Not in the slightest.” She tossed the notebook towards Kuradal, and it was met, mid-air, by a well-aimed inferno. 

The tome lit up with a flash, burning quickly mid-air. Teiran watched with distaste as the ashes floated to the ground, before turning back to the wall. 

“Good bloody riddance,” she said. “Right. On my count. One… two… ”


	66. The Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Graphic depictions of one-sided violence. (If you know how Kindred Spirits ends, you know what I'm talking about.)

Guthan stood stock-still, the metal ball he was encased in teetering precariously on ramp. At the bottom, to his left, Commander Jaycliffe hung limply, the fight long gone from him; Torag and Karil were similarly silent, unmoving with the eerie quiet of the dead.

Guthan stared ahead miserably, watching the torches flicker in their sconces. Anticipation. That was worse than it had felt when he’d died. He’d take a thousand spears to the chest, a thousand arrows to the eye, a thousand swords to the belly, over this cursed _ waiting _ . 

Sliske knew this. The Brothers’ torment wasn’t in the fact that people constantly came by to kill them.  _ That _ was annoying, but those were practically blissful oases of violence in the vast and horrible desert of tedium. Every second lying in the coffin seemed to stretch into forever. Waiting for the next fight. Waiting for Sliske to drag them out, pulling them by unseen strings. Waiting. The worst agony of them all. 

If Guthan had a breath to sigh with, he would. But instead, there was only stillness, save for the torches.

A soft rumble sliced through the quiet, sending a shower of dirt cascading from the ceiling with a hiss. Guthan microscopically adjusted his stance. Such tremors weren’t unusual in Sliske’s underground; usually they occured when he got bored and decided to rearrange the interior. 

The ground rumbled again, this time louder. The ball wobbled, and Guthan forced himself to stay steady. 

He glanced at his brothers, still imprisoned. Whatever decorating Sliske was doing, it sounded destructive. Maybe he’d grow bored of the torture, and let them go back…

_ BOOM _ . An explosive blast from behind him sent the ball rocketing off the platform. The ball, and the hapless wight within, were sent flying across the room, where both hit the wall opposite, embedded halfway through the stone.

“I think we might have overdone it on that one, Kuradal.” The voice floated over the dusty wreckage, coming from the hole in the wall near where Guthan had been.

“It’s not my fault Sliske makes his walls so thin,” a second voice petulantly replied. “Can you see where we are? I hope it’s not another smoke bomb storage room.”

“To be fair, m’am, they are rather useful,” a third voice said. “They’re a good getaway tactic. And they get moths out of linen.”

Teiran dusted off her cavalier as she stepped into the chamber, and noted the men strapped to the racks on either side of her. “Looks like another damn puzzle room. Probably one where I make some descision to torture one of the Barrows. Sliske’s not very creative in that aspect.”

“We’re playing into his hands, then, aren’t we?” Kuradal said.

“Not really,” Teiran said. “We’re here. But we’re not playing the game. And we just ruined a perfectly nice wall. He’ll be around.” She unhooked her whip, carefully watching the gloom. “In precisely… three… two… one…”

The dark in front of them shifted, revealing a very angry-looking Sliske, his arms crossed.

“That  _ was _ a perfectly good wall, you ungrateful little heathen,” he said. “Does the concept of using a door fail to pervade you? Now I have to repair Guthan and set up this contraption  _ again…. _ ”

His gaze then caught Kuradal and Marianne, and his expression twisted in confusion. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “You’re supposed to be in the holding room with Quintus —” He pointed to Marianne — “And you’re supposed to have your Achilles tendons severed,” he said, pointing to Kuradal.

“Change of plans,” Teiran said, stepping forward. “You don’t have any more bargaining chips, Sliske. The game’s up.”

“Oh, really?” Sliske said, raising an eyebrow. “We’ll have to see about that.” He flicked both of his hands simultaneously, and shadows erupted from the floor like evil roots at Kuradal and Marianne’s feet. 

However, they missed. Kuradal cut through hers with an expert swing from the sword, and Marianne dodged away lightly, leaping up onto one of the ramps. 

Kuradal shook her head. “Fool us once, Sliske…”

“Oh, I know the rest,” Sliske said petulantly. “Fool you once, shame on me, fool you twice…”

“And we cut you into tiny pieces,” Kuradal said, “and send you over Baxtorian Falls in a barrel of salt-herring.”

Sliske snorted. “I’m not familiar with that one. But you’ve made your point!” He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not an unreasonable Mahjarrat. You’ve reached the final room, after all. So now, here’s your prize.”

He twisted his wrist, and the Staff of Armadyl appeared in his hand. Then, he swung it downwards, pointed straight at Teiran. “And now it’s time for me to give it to you!”

Teiran tried to dodge, but it was too late. She heard both Kuradal and Marianne shout as the bolt hit her, straight on, wreathing her body in cold, blue flame. 

She felt something in her… rip. The staff was pulling, pulling, tearing at something internal. She felt agony; pain not bound to any limb or organ or part of her body, but part of her very being.

Teiran opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Her chest was on fire. Her mind felt on fire. Everything felt on fire. She couldn’t see; she tasted nothing but iron and copper, and felt nothing but pain.

Sliske voice, cold and mocking, floated through the void.

“You know what this feeling is?” he said. Though she couldn’t see it, she knew he was grinning. “It’s your soul, adventurer. I’m ripping it out right now, like skin from an eel. Every memory, every emotion, everything you know… it’ll be mine. Your childhood. Every quest. Every kill you’ve made. Every breath you’ve taken….”

Images flashed across her eyes, unbidden. A pint-sized version of her, chasing her brother with a stick, pretending it was a sword… the argument with her parents, as she clutched her handmade bronze dagger and stomped her way towards the boat… a revenant striking her, freezing her limbs in place as she struggled to get away….

_ A cave on Lunar Isle, glittering, empty and silent, save for the soft breaths of the unconscious man before her…  _

_ A bridge over a river, where ducks quacked and ducklings _ eeped _ in reply, waiting, waiting… _

_ The taste of wine, the smell of smoke and woodchips and earth, him, close to her, touching her, and a feeling she never wanted to end… _

_ A temple, desecrated… fire and light, ash and the taste of blood in her mouth, pain, and fear… _

“Every moment,” Sliske hissed. “I’ll finish the job I started, Teiran, back on the plateau, now that there’s no measly priest to protect you. I’ll put your soul in a jar and make your body kill your little friends… and I’ll make you relive everything, over and over, until you think it’s all a bad dream. And then I’ll wake you up and bring you back again, and you won’t even be able to  _ scream _ .”

She tried to struggle, but her whole body felt like it was made of ice. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. 

_ A bed in Taverley… a frozen plane… smoke, rising over Draynor, then Lumbridge… scorched earth, blazing desert… Burthorpe, empty and silent, and the jungle, and the ghosts that flickered within….  _

_ A tome, heavy in her heads, bile rising in her throat as she read it… a voice, hissing like a nest of snakes, older than time, older than anything she could imagine… hunger, hunger… _

Something in the spell changed. She could see Sliske’s face now, through the blue fire; it had been leering in its usual way before, but now his eyes widened.

“My plans?” Sliske said, disbelieving. “You know… my secret plans?”

The fire disappeared, and Teiran’s senses returned, leaving behind a heady residue of pain. She collapsed to the ground, gasping, as her entire body throbbed and burned, wishing vehemently that the room would stop spinning. 

“You’ve seen my plans,” Sliske said again, shaking his head. “This is…”

“Impossible?” Teiran said, managing to raise her head. She grinned, even though her teeth ached. “What’s the matter, Sliske? No retorts? No witty comebacks? Lost your edge?”

“You’re not allowed to see behind the mask,” Sliske said, his voice suddenly soft. “No one is…”

He gripped the staff tighter, so hard that she could hear it creak. “Pawns…. Aren’t supposed to know…”

Suddenly, he flung the staff to the side, letting it land on the floor with a clatter. He strode towards her, his face twisted in anger, as Teiran struggled to get up.

She staggered to her feet and attempted to swing a punch; however, Sliske’s hand caught her fist, tightening like a vice. He lifted her easily, and flung her towards the wall. She landed with a sickening crunch, and she felt pain bloom from her shoulder and right side. 

Teiran looked up, her vision spinning. Kuradal was charging towards the mahjarrat; Sliske raised his arm, summoning a wall of shadows that deflected her away easily. Marianne was off to the side, dodging and fending off blows from a tangle of shadow tendrils with her dagger.

Teiran struggled to her feet again, even as every part of her screamed in pain. Sliske strode towards her, snarling, and raised his fist. 

The first blow landed upside of her chin, making her brain swim even more than it had before. The second one caught her on the ear, making it ring. Another one struck her nose, and she tasted blood in the back of her throat. 

She was waiting for a fourth punch when she felt Sliske’s knee connect to her abdomen, knocking the breath out of her. She collapsed again, her chest tight and suffocating as she attempted to fill her lungs with air. Despite the ringing in her ears, she could hear Sliske pant above her.

“You’re a  _ pawn _ ,” he said, his voice drawn out in a low whine. “Pawns aren’t supposed to know. Pawns aren’t supposed to see the chessmaster…”

Despite the blood in her mouth and the burn in her limbs, Teiran managed to grin. She felt air return to her chest again, and her first exhale came out in a laugh.

“You lost it there, Sliske,” she said, her chest aching with restraint. “You fucking  _ lost  _ it. I  _ made _ you lose it, didn’t I? No more shadows. No more hiding. Oh, you came out _ swinging _ .” 

She looked up. Sliske’s face was a mask of rage, twisted into a scowl akin to a child having lost their favorite toy. It made her grin all the wider. 

“You want a fight, Sliske?” she chuckled. “You want to stoop to my level? Then bring it on. I’ll be ready. You can threaten me. You can threaten my friends. But I won’t stop coming. Not as long as I breathe.”

Sliske shook with rage, his scowl growing deeper. “You… you…”

He closed his eyes, and seemed to regain some of his composure, though his hands were still clenched into fists.

“You know what?” he said, barely concealing the shaking in his voice. “Fine then. You win. You get to live another day. After all, you’ll wake up in Lumbridge after this, all healed and in one piece. As for the hostages…”

He grinned, madly. “Well, I don’t think they’re immune to falling rocks, are they?”

He snapped his fingers. The caverns began to shake, violently; small rocks started to cascade off the walls, and the room creaked and rumbled. 

“We’ll meet again, adventurer,” he said, as parts of the roof began to crack. “And when we do, it will be endgame.”

Sliske disappeared in a puff of smoke. The roof cracked further, sending chunks of rock crashing down to the floor.

Teiran stumbled to her feet, lights dancing in front of her eyes as she attempted to stay upright. 

“Miss!” she heard Marianne shout. The maid rushed to her side and offered an arm in support, which Teiran gratefully leaned on. 

“We need to get out of here,” she said. “Where’s Kuradal? Are there any doorways out?”

“Here!” Kuradal yelled by one of the doorways. “There’s a stone passage this way.”

Teiran fished around in her bag and pulled out a Saradomin brew, gulping half of it down in one swig. The pain faded, though she knew she’d be paying for it later that night. “Let’s go.”

As she and Marianne sprinted to the door, Teiran glanced back to the racks where the Barrows had been. Guthan seemed to have freed himself from his prison, and was liberating his brothers from their chains. 

He caught Teiran’s gaze, and shook his head. 

“Go,” the wight said, his voice dry and hollow. “We are freed of Sliske’s influence for now. But it will not be long. Beware of the others in the hallways.”

Teiran nodded, and turned towards the door. Kuradal blasted it open, and they entered the winding passageways beyond. 

Rock continued to crumble and fall from the ceiling, and it was all Teiran could do to dodge it. Scanning the branching paths ahead, she retrieved a toktz-ket-xil from her pack and held it aloft, trying her best to block Marianne from the shower of debris.

“Which way do we go?” Kuradal said. “It’s like a maze in here.”

All three passages looked the same, and were dark beyond. Teiran was about to choose the middle one when a flash of green caught her eye. It disappeared as she turned to look; however, in its wake, she saw an arrow scratched into the floor, crude and hasty, pointing to the passage on the far right. 

“This way,” she said, without hesitation. 

“Are you sure?” Kuradal asked, spotting the arrow as well. Teiran was about to reply when a blast of magic narrowly missed her at the side. Ahrim had materialized behind them, and was sending spells their way. 

“No time to debate,” Teiran said. “Just trust me.”

The three sprinted through the passage, dodging rocks and blasts from Ahrim’s staff. The next fork contained another arrow, as well a couple of lesser wights, swords ready. 

“Ignore them!” Teiran shouted. “Just keep running!”

And run they did. Everything became a blur, and Teiran only slowed to make sure the other two were still at her side, and to check where the arrows led. Occasionally a flash of an axe or swing from a hammer would come the trio’s way as they ran past the packs of wights and the occasional repossessed brother, but she paid them no mind.

_ Get us to the end, _ she thought, even as her side burned and her limbs felt like they were turned to lead. Marianne was keeping up, but she was starting to stumble more and more, dodging the rocks with less grace. Kuradal had already sustained a couple of blows from the rubble and had earned a gash above her eyebrow, which was bleeding heavily. 

_ Get us to the end, _ Teiran thought again.  _ If I have to stay behind and get crushed to death by rocks, so be it. If I have to fight all the Barrows at once, I’ll do it. Get us to the end, so I can send them home. Safely. Please. _

Just as her legs felt like they were about to give out, she saw a shaft of light up ahead. The pathway ended in a rough chamber, three ropes stretching down from the ceiling, from where weak light shone. Teiran skidded to a stop, catching her breath as the other two stopped beside her. 

“Made,” she wheezed. “It.” She grabbed one of the ropes. “One. For. Each of us. Lessgo…”

“Miss,” Marianne said, her voice quiet. “Behind you.”

Teiran turned around still panting, and froze.

A robed figure stood in the doorway, its glowing eyes the only feature visible in the darkness of its hood. It held a mace, burning with strange energy in its center, and stood with all the stillness of a corpse. 

Teiran stiffened, and unsheathed her sword. “You two go up,” she said, glancing to Kuradal and Marianne. “I’ll stay behind and fend him off.”

Kuradal nodded, and grabbed the first rope in the row. As she did, the figure shook its head, and held up three fingers.

“Eh?” Teiran tilted her head to the side. “Look, mate, if you’re trying to trick us…”

“Wait,” Kuradal said. She tugged the rope she had grabbed. She then dodged, as the boulder it had been tied to came crashing down, crumbling on the floor. 

Teiran glanced back to the figure, which still held up its three fingers. “Try the third rope,” she said.

Marianne grabbed it, and pulled. “It’s steady, miss.”

“Use that one,” Teiran said. “Kuradal, you first. Then Marianne. I’ll follow after you.”

“But miss —”

“Go.”

The maid nodded. Kuradal hefted herself up the rope, followed by the maid. Teiran didn’t see them, instead keeping her eye locked on the hooded wight by the door. 

When Marianne made it to the top, Teiran grabbed the rope, still watching. It was then that the figure chose to move, striding across the room with surprising swiftness towards her. 

Teiran held the sword to its throat. “Don’t try anything.”

It reached out to her, lightly touching her arm with the hand that felt like ice. She felt static crackle across her skin. 

“Wha..?” She said, as the faint ache in her shoulder and her ribs all but disappeared.

“You…” She rubbed her arm, the pain now gone. “You healed me,” she said, her eyes wide. 

The arrows… the hints… scratched into the floor with a familiar scrawl, like a hasty letter from so long ago…

“Akrisae,” Teiran said. “You’ve been helping me this whole time, haven’t you?”

“ _ Go _ .” It  _ was _ his voice. Far away and empty sounding, and very, very tired, but his nonetheless. For a moment, she thought she could see the lights under the hood flicker, as though in sadness, and he bowed his head. 

“I can’t resist Sliske much longer,” Akrisae said. “Leave now.”

“Akrisae,” Teiran said, feeling her eyes sting. “Akrisae, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. I made my decision. And I don’t regret it.” The priest looked upward, towards the light. “Go now. Run from this place, as fast and far as you can.”

She nodded. “I’ll find a way, Akrisae. I’ll kill Sliske. And I’ll free you and the others. I promise.”

The wight said nothing, simply bowing his head again. Teiran began to climb, thankful for her newly-healed shoulder. When she reached the top, she looked down, one last time. 

There was nothing below, save for a broken rope, and a single, four-pointed star scratched in the dirt, framed by the beam of light above. 

* * *

Teiran hefted herself to the top, feeling Kuradal grab her hand and pull her the rest of the way. As she emerged, the damp, muddy smell of swamp hit her nose, as a chorus of insects and the groan of distant shades filled her ears. She looked around, noting the six familiar mounds around them.  _ Natural that we’d pop up around the Barrows, _ she thought. 

“Are you two ok?” Teiran asked, brushing herself off. Marianne hunched over, catching her breath, and Kuradal now sported a stripe of blood down the left side of her face. 

“Recovering,” the slayer master said. “We need to leave. Now.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” She pulled a handful of runes from her bag, and began to cast telegroup to Catherby. “Brace yourselves…”

The spell fizzled, dying in her hands. Teiran crinkled her eyebrows in confusion. “A teleblock? Wait…  _ Shit… _ ”

The shadows in front of them shimmered, slowly forming into a human figure, as laughter echoed in the graveyard. 

“You know what?” Sliske said, his form slowly taking shape. “I know I went out all dramatically last time, but I  _ really _ wasn’t expecting you to make it out of those caves. And I  _ am _ a mahjarrat of my word. So I think I’ll just kill you all up here.”

Teiran unfurled her whip again, standing protectively in front of Marianne, and she heard Kuradal unsheathe her sword. A slight wind, unusual in the stagnant swamps, ruffled her hair, and she felt a chill on the back of her neck. 

“You two run,” Teiran hissed, letting herself slip into a battle stance. “I’ll hold him off as long as I can. Ok? Get to Burgh de Rott. There should be a bank there.”

Kuradal shifted her stance, preparing to dash, as Teiran watched the shadows dance and shift in front of her.  _ Six seconds of time, _ she thought.  _ That’s all I need. _

The air shifted again, this time more strongly. It bore the smell of smoke, and she wondered if someone was burning pyres in Mor’ton.

“You can run!” Sliske laughed, his face appearing with a leer in the dark. “But you can’t hide!”

“On my count,” Teiran said. “Three… two…”

The air shifted once more; however, it was far from a breeze, and more of a gust. It came from above, and carried a growl, deep and menacing.

Sliske materialized, shadows dancing at his side. “Well, hostages?” He grinned. “How’s it feel, getting this far, and then dying at the finish li—”

His sentence was cut off when the dragon landed on him, it bulk all but squashing the mahjarrat and his consortium of shadows. It was blue, almost black-looking in the darkness, and fire sparked in its mouth and eyes. 

It roared, shaking the trees and meagre shacks of the nearby village, heat pouring off of it like a hearth. It was huge, nearly taking up half the graveyard, and its wings blocked out the weak sun.

“Raharni above...” Kuradal whispered next to her, slowly raising her sword. “A dragon? In Morytania?”

The dragon turned to Teiran, its nostrils glowing with internal flame. It pulled back its snout, revealing a set of white, glittering teeth, as it drew in a long, hot breath. 

It opened its mouth. Teiran instinctively closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable inferno… 

And instead felt a slimy tongue on her face, smelling of ash and brimstone. She opened her eyes. The dragon panted eagerly, its eyes fixed on her. Familiar. Glittering with friendliness. And much, much larger than when she’d last seen them….

“ _ Roland _ ?” Teiran said. The dragon let out a soft snort, smoke pouring from its nostrils. Teiran rubbed her eyes, wondering if the dragon was just an illusion. “It can’t be…”

“Miss,” Marianne said softly. “His back leg. Look.”

Sure enough, there it was; the discolored patch of scales on his left haunch, familiar as all the time she’d spent scratching it. 

“Roland!” she said again, reaching out to touch his snout. It was warm to the touch, but not burning. “How the hell did you find us?”

“Let’s find out later,” Kuradal said. “The mahjarrat is reforming.”

The shadows in the graveyard were, indeed, twisting further, slowly coalescing into a humanoid figure. Teiran pulled her hand back, scanning the area for exits. 

“What’s the plan?” She said. “If Roland can hold him off, then we might be able to run…”

“I think the dragon has another idea,” Kuradal said, pointing to the beast. Roland had lowered his belly to the ground, slightly leaning to the side, offering his back.

“Are… dragons even rideable?” Teiran said, staring in disbelief.

“That’s a discussion we can have later,” Kuradal said, clambering on. “Are you coming or not?”

Teiran simply nodded, and helped Marianne climb on, before joining her. Once all three were settled, Roland adjusted himself, and spread his wings, covering all of the Barrows mounds in black shadow. 

“Miss,” Marianne said, grabbing Teiran around the waist. “Um… I’m not sure about this… Um… I’d rather not think of heights…”

“It’s not the heights to be worried about, Marianne,” Teiran said, gripping the dragon tightly. “It’s the ground.”

Roland took off, his wings stirring the air into a small vortex as he ascended. Leaves and dirt flew. Teiran watched, with amusement, as a couple of nearby patrolling vyrewatch were flung backward in the miniature gale. The dragon rose higher, leaving the ground to shrink below them as he parted from it.

Teiran held onto the dragon’s sides as strongly as she dared, through the rocking and swaying in his flight. Roland continued to climb, hitting the low cloudbank that perpetually covered Morytania; as they passed through it, Teiran felt every inch of her become damp, water clinging to her skin as they tore through the thick fog.

The late afternoon sun was almost blinding as they broke through the mist, the dragon flying higher, and then settling over the cloud blanket below. He turned away from the light, heading east towards the Paterdomus.

The three women remained silent as Roland glided, casting a draconic shadow over Silverea, and then Varrock. As they passed, she saw people, small as ants, stop and gawk at the sight above; along the borders of Morytania and the Wilderness, the beacons began to flare, one by one, in a frantic sequence. 

_ I’ll never hear the end of that from King Roald, _ she thought idly, as they passed over the Edgeville Monastery.  _ A dragon sighted over Varrock, and the World Guardian’s nowhere to be seen. Ah, well. They can’t depend on me for everything.  _

“Does he know where to go?” Kuradal asked, hanging over the side and watching the landscape sail by beneath. The wind nearly drowned out her voice, and Teiran had to strain to hear her.

“I don’t know!” Teiran shouted. They were flying over Burthorpe now, and she could see a few errant guards confusedly watching them. A training drill in the castle courtyard had come to an abrupt stop, much to the bewilderment of Major Mary Rancour. Some trolls on Death Plateau fruitlessly tossed a few rocks at them, shaking their fists and bellowing at their missed target.

Teiran turned behind her. “How are you doing, Marianne?”

“Trying not to think about gravity, miss. Or the ground,” the maid squeaked from behind her. “Erm… I’d rather not talk, miss. That would mean opening my mouth.”

“Hang in there,” she said. “I think we’ll land. Eventually. And at a reasonable velocity.”

Roland stayed aloft for some time, and Teiran watched the scenery. The sea by Catherby glittered below them, bordered by rows of fishermen, too busy and hunched over to see what was above them. 

RuneScape was… small. Or it felt small. White Wolf Mountain looked like a hill. Camelot looked like a model. The lake by Hemenster was no more than a puddle. 

Everything had become dwarfed in size, but at the same time… it felt big. The scenery was familiar to her as the back of her hand, but it felt strange and new. 

Maybe it was seeing it from a different angle. Maybe it was the fact that she was riding on the back of a massive dragon, sandwiched between a maid and a slayer master. But now, even though she’d walked the paths and visited the villages below her a thousand times, there was a part of her — something old and left sleeping for a long time — that felt the urge to explore again.

The air shifted. Roland was turning — and descending, it felt like. Teiran squinted past the dragon’s head. She could see a pond up ahead — small, and whirling with a fierce torrent. 

“I think he’s taking us to Baxtorian Falls!” she shouted. 

“Why would he know to go there?” Kuradal yelled. The ground was getting considerably closer now; she could see Almera’s house now, along with a couple of terrified adventurers mid-salmon fishing.

Teiran shrugged. “He’s lived there once! He probably recognizes you!”

“But blue dragons are supposed to be stupid!” Kuradal said. “I —”

She was cut off mid-sentence by a deluge of water. Roland, skimming low over the water, had used his tail to flick of splash of water in her direction, leaving her now thoroughly soaked.

He landed north of the lake with a huff, shaking off the excess droplets. Kuradal testily spat out a mouthful of pond water. 

“Fine,” she said. “ _ Most _ blue dragons are stupid. The rest are just petty.”

Roland snorted, and lowered himself to the ground, letting the passengers dismount. Kuradal slid off easily, while Teiran took a moment to get down, and then lifted Marianne off. The minute the maid’s feet touched the ground, she slumped forward, face-first, and dug her hands into the earth.

“Miss,” she said, muffledly. “Is this what adventuring is like?”

“Occasionally?” Teiran said. “The dragon-riding is a first.”

“I’m never complaining about the laundry again, miss.”

Teiran left her to recover, and turned to Kuradal, who was looking inspecting Roland’s mouth. The dragon allowed her, his scarlet tongue lolling out as she did so. 

“Hmmm. He’s quite healthy. Looks like he’s got a fish-heavy diet,” she said, removing a miscellaneous bone from in between his canines and tossing it to the side. 

“It’s definitely Roland?” Teiran asked.

“No doubt about it,” Kuradal said, releasing the dragon’s jaw. “You can tell by the teeth. He’s about two, two and a half now. Getting to the territorial age.”

Teiran shook her head. “How in Gielinor did he survive?”

“Dragons are surprisingly hardy,” Kuradal said. “Though I have to say, this is the most ridiculous case I’ve seen so far.”

She patted Roland on the snout, and he let out a happy snort. “He’s probably got a lair someplace, though he could hide in Kandarin, I wouldn’t know.”

“Hmmm.” Teiran reached over and scratched him under the chin, which earned her a happy rumble. “Wherever he is, he seems happy.”

“Yes.” Kuradal paused. 

“I believe this is where we part ways,” she said.

“Yeah, well, at least until I need a reason to kill 250 aberrant spectres,” Teiran replied, cracking a smile. “Though considering what poor Marianne’s been through, I’d likely turn that one down.”

“You don’t need to get assignments from me anymore, you know. You’re qualified enough for Morvan to take you by now. I heard they’ve managed to re-grow Prifddinas. Have you been yet?”

“Eh, the elves want nothing to do with me,” Teiran shrugged. “I’ll stop by soon, alright? I don’t care if it’s grotworms or waterfiends.”

“Hmm. You know where to find me.” She paused. “Thank you, by the way.”

“For saving your arse?”

“For forwarding my father’s message. And that too, I suppose.” She smiled. 

“Yeah, well, I owe you. For the glacors. And everything else on the plateau,” Teiran said. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stop hunting after the dragonkin?”

The slayer master’s expression darkened. “No. I may not be after vengeance, but they are a scourge on this land. What you’ve seen in Kethsi and on Mos Le’Harmless is only the beginning. And the more Siske abuses the Stone…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Teiran sighed, a familiar weariness settling over her. “Just… don’t do anything stupid, ok? If anything, they’ll come after me. And I can come back. You can’t.”’

Kuradal nodded. “If you ever need my assistance…”

“I’ll call you straight away.” She looked over to Roland, who was now sprawled out on the grass, enjoying the late afternoon sun. “It’s funny, you know.”

“What is?”

“Roland. Him coming back, I mean. It gives me hope.”

“Of what?”

She shrugged, noncommittally. “That things can be ok. That things can be normal again.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘normal’ in our line of work.”

“Mmm. And yet we find it anyway.” She walked over and patted the dragon on the head. “You ready to go home, buddy?”

The dragon growled, and sat up, his eyes bright, and slowly spread his wings. Teiran turned to Marianne, who was now sitting up and watching the dragon with some trepidation. 

“Are you up for Round Two?” she asked gently. 

The maid nodded. “Ardougne’s not far from here, is it?”

“No very. I might have to land him by the monastery, but it shouldn’t be too far of a walk.”

The two clambered on the dragon’s back once more, and Roland ascended. Kuradal waved to them as they lifted off, grinning the whole while, until she was concealed by the pervasive mists of Baxtorian Falls.

* * *

They flew in silence, save for the soft whistling of the wind and the occasional flap of the dragon’s wings. Marianne clung on tightly behind her, though her grip this time around was considerably less vice-like. 

Teiran watched the landscape pass by below her, as the twin cities of Ardougne began to come into view. Before they could pass over the borders, however, Roland began to turn, heading towards Witchaven. 

Teiran nudged him with her foot. “Roland?  _ Home _ is that way,” she said, pointing west. “You’re going off course.”

“Perhaps he’s headed towards  _ his _ home, miss,” Marianne said. “He hasn’t been in the house for two years, after all.”

“Hmmm. Where is home for you, anyways?” She squinted, trying to discern where the dragon was heading.

Roland continued on his course, passing by the Legend’s Guild and soaring over the sea. The Fishing Platform was the size of a book from up here, though she could still faintly smell it. A tiny island, large enough to barely hold two standing people, caught her eye, and she regarded it for a moment before turning away. 

Roland was beginning to descend again, and as he did, she could see where he was heading; when she did, Teiran started to laugh. 

“What is it, miss?” Marianne said, peeking over her shoulder. “Is that his home? A burned-up little island?”

“Crandor!” Teiran said, shaking her head. “Of all the places in Gielinor… he ended up on Crandor. You clever little bastard.”

Roland slowed, and landed, sending up a shower of sand as he skidded to a stop on the beach. The island was just as Teiran had left it, all those years ago; scorched and barren, with the remaining rubble of a destroyed city sitting sadly on its crest. There weren’t any moss giants around this time, which she attributed to Roland’s residency. There were, however, a few warped, sand-blasted planks littered on the beach, which she suspected were long-forgotten remnants of the _ Lady Lumbridge _ .

“Gods, how long has it been?” she said, slipping off the dragon’s back. “Ha! I was a stupid kid back then. Head-to-toe in adamant with a bag full of lobsters…”

“You’ve been here before, miss?” Marianne said, landing on the beach. 

“Yeah. This was before I hired you, mind. I don’t think I even had a house then. Apparently the Champion’s Guild got tired of me pestering them for entry and sent me on a fool’s errand to vanquish Elvarg.”

“What did you do, miss?”

“Well, I went and slayed a dragon, of course. What else would I do? I wanted rune armour.” Roland let out a snort, and Teiran patted him on the back. “Don’t worry. I’m not slaying you any time soon.”

Roland let out a yawn, and began to clamber over the hill. When he reached the top, he headed towards a well-worn hole in the ground, and crawled inside, his tail disappearing with a flick. 

Teiran followed suit, pulling out a rope. “Here, it should be safe. He’ll have probably cleared out anything in there that would try to kill us.”

They climbed down into the darkness, lit by the distant glow of lava from the other end. As she descended, Teiran could see Roland was now occupying Elvarg’s old spot — though he’d taken the trouble to melt away the iron gate, leaving the space open, and had accentuated the area with several chewed-up pieces of armour. 

Roland himself was curled on the floor, surrounded by bits of shredded metal. He let out a happy snort as Teiran approached him, closing his eyes as she scratched him behind his jawline. His scales had lost their softness from where he was young, and she recalled the days when she could still pick him up with a touch of longing. 

“Do you think he’s happy here, miss?” Marianne said, softly rubbing the dragon’s back.

“He looks to be,” Teiran said. “He’s probably safer here than most places, actually. Everyone knows Elvarg’s dead, and Crandor’s too scorched for anyone to rebuild anything here.”

_ Even so _ , she thought.  _ It wouldn’t hurt to take some precautions. A few signs, perhaps. Or rumors that whatever lives here has very shitty drops. _

“I wonder how he found us…” she muttered, pulling her hand back. “How could he have known we’d be in Morytania…?”

“Miss? Do you see that?” Marianne pointed towards the dragon’s front claw. “There’s something in there.”

Teiran reached down, and tore free a scrap of white cloth. It looked as though it had been ripped from a larger piece of fabric; as she rubbed it between her fingers, Teiran realized that it was made of linen.

“Odd,” she said, inspecting the cloth. “I don’t recall Kuradal wearing anything like this…”

She pocketed it, shaking her head. “We can worry about that later. Here, let’s get to the surface.”

The sun was just starting to set when they re-emerged, turning the ocean russet orange. The ocean swooshed over the shore, hissing and sighing as it washed in. There weren’t any seagulls around — probably prudently, considering the island's sole occupant — leaving the beach quiet, save for the sound of the water.

Teiran watched it in silence, not saying a word, as the sun sank lower and lower, letting herself breathe in the sea air and thinking of nothing in particular. 

“Is it sad, miss?” Marianne asked, breaking the silence after some time.

“Mmm?”

“Seeing Roland. Seeing… reminders, miss.”

“It is.” She smiled, a little sadly.  _ Everything is a reminder. And I’ve learned to live with that, I suppose. _

“Do you miss him?”

“Always.” She paused. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

She turned to Marianne. “But seeing Roland again… it’s happy, too. I’m glad he’s safe. I’m glad you’re safe.”

The maid nodded. “Miss, I’m sorry —”

“No.” She shook her head. “No apologies. And no more lock-ins — at least, not long ones. I promise. Sliske’s still out there, and you will have to be careful, but I can’t keep you trapped inside forever.”

Marianne nodded. “I… thank you, miss,” she said, quietly. “I’ll stop sneaking out.”

“Good.” She then grinned, deviously. “So. When are you going to introduce me to Ling?”

Marianne turned scarlet, hastily looking away towards the ocean. “It’s a bit soon, miss!”

“Three months is too soon? You met Cyrisus sooner than that, I think.”

“That was different! He brought you home!”

“And why not you? You know Asmodeus doesn’t bite.”

They continued to argue, good-naturedly, even after Teiran teleported them back, and as Asmodeus warmly greeted them, scolded them, and served them curry.  And even after Postie Pete showed up at her door in the middle of dinner with a dozen distressed missives from three different kingdoms about dragon sightings, she couldn’t stop thinking, with a long-forgotten feeling of comfort:  _ I’m home. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ https://i.redd.it/yryti2mkv3o31.png ](https://i.redd.it/yryti2mkv3o31.png)


	67. Worlds Apart

“We are entering endgame now.”

Teiran watched Seren with some unease. The goddess glittered, sending small specks of light flashing across the tower’s walls and outshining even the stained glass windows that circled the room. She was like a chandelier, Teiran reflected; quiet, but drawing attention through presence alone. 

Teiran shifted, awkwardly, trying to avoid looking directly at her for the sake of not being blinded. “Sliske would probably call it more of a finale,” she said. “Climax, maybe. He’d probably say it with a suggestive eyebrow waggle, for extra effect.”

“Nomenclature aside,” Seren said, drifting to the center of the room, “The time for the race between the gods to end is imminent. The eclipse approaches.”

“Three days. I know.”

The invitation has been an unpleasant surprise, Teiran recalled. She wasn’t sure what was worse; the fact that it had turned up in the form of a drop from a bloodveld, sandwiched between two squares of congealed blood whilst she was mid-slayer assignment, or the fact that it played a jolly little tune when she opened it. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve sent an RSVP, then?” she asked. 

“I plan to be present.”

“Why? You came into this latest of all.”

Seren coming back had also been a bit of a nasty shock. Teiran had heard rumors, of course, floating around Lletya and otherwise. It was only when she teleported into Tirannwn for a clue scroll when the newly regrown high spire of Prifddinas caught her eye, causing her to fall directly into a pit trap in surprise. She declined to ask for details as to how the elves had managed to revive their goddess; when she asked Arianwyn, he’d simply shaken his head and muttered something about “cursed light puzzles.”

“In any case,” Teiran continued, “I’d assume you have no hat in this. You got your city back. You’re reunited with the elves. I don’t reckon you’d want to take over Gielinor.”

“No. But there are larger factors at play.” Seren looked towards the windows. Her gaze lingered on one, drained of all colour, featuring a single mosaic grey skull in its center. “The Stone has its own allure to many. It’s infused with power beyond most reckoning; elder, divine. I fear that even those who take it with good intentions may be corrupted by it, if it falls in their possession. And its power may wake something meant to be asleep…”

“Mah, you mean?”

“No. Mah is dead.” She said this with sorrow in her voice, her eyes closed. 

“Oh,” Teiran said. “Um… how?”

“I will not go into particulars. It was… necessary. Unfortunately. She suffered, and was causing the suffering of others. It had to be done. But that did not make it any less painful.”

“Ah. Erm. I’m sorry,” Teiran said, a touch awkwardly. The goddess's flow had dimmed, by a degree, making her merely radiant instead of blinding, and her head was bowed. “She was your mother, wasn’t she? In a sense.”

“As close to one as there could be,” Seren said. “And not a kind one, at that. But she was all there was, for much of my existence. Her absence still pierces me.”

“What about Zaros?”

Seren’s expression darkened, if that were even possible. “My brother… has his own agenda. His motivations for ending Mah’s life were selfish. I do not trust him.”

 _What else is news?_ Teiran thought. “What does this mean for Gielinor, then? If one Elder God is dead…”

“Mah was weak. Not of the calibre of her sisters. Though I would not expect it to impact things as we know them. Not yet, in any case.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good. I suppose.”

“Your allegiances,” Seren continued, turning back to her. “I assume they lie with Guthix’s intentions?”

“More or less.”

“That is…. Good,” Seren said measuredly. “Guthix’s vision for Gielinor was admirable. I would hope it’s upheld.”

“It will be.” _As long as everything around this doesn’t go pear-shaped._

She turned to leave, grateful to pull her eyes away from Seren’s painfully blazing light. “I don’t suppose Zaros is around, is he?”

“He left shortly before you arrived,” Seren said. “He was traveling to the north of the Wilderness. Though I cannot imagine why.”

“I stopped trying to have an imagination about him long ago,” Teiran said. “Thanks for the intel. I assume I’ll be seeing you in three days.”

“Indeed.” Seren turned to the window again, and Teiran couldn’t see her expression. “Be careful, adventurer. Keep well.”

 _I hope,_ Teiran thought, as she started descending the winding staircase down the tower. _I really bloody hope._

* * *

She found Zaros at the very edge of the Wilderness, far north by the sea. He was floating over a path of basalt, the columned rocks strangely befitting his angular form. As Teiran approached, he did not turn, and instead stated:

“You have things you wish to tell me.”

“Lots of things,” she said, clambering up the rocks next to him. “Most of them vulgar. But I’m rather busy today, so I’ll skip the unpleasantries. What the hell are you planning?”

He said nothing, simply continuing to float over the pillars, his robes drifting lazily in the breeze. 

And then he said: “They once called me the lord of entropy. Of rot and decay and ruin. That was long ago. But a moniker remained. Thus, to some, I am The Empty Lord.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I have denied that nature assigned to me.” Though the ocean’s hiss dampened it somewhat, and though they were in an open space, his voice still echoed. “All systems tend towards disorder. Existence itself is defiance against entropy; that is true for all things. And I embrace that resistance. Thus, now, I am the Lord of Order. The god of control.”

“You’re dodging the question.”

“You do not understand,” Zaros said. “I am older than this land as you know it. Older than any intelligent life that stumbled across it, like blind, weak creatures discovering the sun. I comprehend more than you could ever possibly hope to.”

“That’s your excuse, then?” Teiran said. “For all your scheming? What do you plan to do when you get the stone?”

“My plans are not yours to know. All I will say is that there are events that must be guided.,” Zaros said. “There are those, including the gods, that must be ushered to the right decision. Through this, I will usher Gielinor to its destiny, and those upon it to their true potential.”

“RuneScape isn’t your ant farm!” Teiran snapped. A particularly vicious wave smashed against the basalt columns, sending a spray of seawater over the rocky outcrop. “And I don’t think the people you intend on ‘leading to their potential’ or whatever would take kindly to you calling them blind and dumb!”

Zaros didn’t answer, for a moment, creating a silence that was filled by nothing by the hiss of the sea. And then he said:

“Do not extrapolate my intentions, World Guardian. There are factors at play here that you do not know of, or even begin to grasp. I do not intend to make Gielinor my ‘ant farm,’ as you so puerilely claim. But, for the sake of exercise, I will ask you: if all the world were an ant farm, would the ants even know?”

He paused. “Or care?”

Teiran shook her head. “I’m done talking to you.”

She then pulled out a set of runes and cast _Teleport to Ardougne._ The spell fizzled, somewhat ruining the dramatic effect, and she cursed under her breath. “Damn Wilderness…”

She then turned and headed south, leaving the god to float over the basalt rocks in silence.

* * *

The first 200 meters of Teiran’s journey to a teleportable part of the Wilderness were relatively uneventful, right until a multihued spell sailed past her and hit a nearby tree stump, turning it into a bucket of sand.

“~chatnpc(“<p,happy>Buenos Días. Ваши деньги или ваша жизнь”);

Return

Teiran looked up. A tumultuous cloud, hanging low to the ground and crowned by an insectoid torso, singly eyeballed her from a few yards away. 

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you. I’m not in the mood for a fight. You can keep your flax.”

“Flax?” It echoed. “Flax! Redundant counterweight balancer adorns (C6H10O5)n. !Rhythm Search: Track 43, therewithin. !Queue: Track 1269. She was here all along.”

“What?” Teiran said. “Who are you talking about?”

“Svi mznv rh vgvimzo,” it squelched. “Svi ylwb rh mlg. Svi gsfnykirmg rh zoo levi srhglib.”

“Aaaaand back to the gibberish,” Teiran sighed. “I’m going to leave now. You have fun turning bits of scenery into random objects, alright?”

“Slx mj ghq ecx azghun xai erepli, kidrmnevbrx logr hxeku,” it gurgled. “Bgt ml xyrrq a ptru oekorw mk? Ghq msnvesux msnrkniz, digmvq hus vxwk, jafclxw raofhik wfhl pii. Ai nnifs, egh nvlx dmx exniz. Wmep pbu dexkmvie tiq?”

She shook her head. “Bloody absurdist boss monster….”

“Trust the chicken,” the Chaos Elemental burbled, as Teiran headed further south. “Eschew the lizard. Refuse to rebuke the octopus.”

It paused. “And beware the shadow…”

* * *

Teiran fell on the mercifully comfortable chair in Death’s office, lifting herself only to grab the steaming cup of tea on the desk before her. She took a sip, reflected on the taste, and then grabbed the sugar bowl, shoveling several more spoonfuls in.

“I will assume,” Death said, watching her glycemic desperation with some concern, “that your parleys with the other gods did not go well?”

“Define ‘well,” she said, tossing the spoon aside and pouring the bowl’s contents straight into her cup. “Seren and Zaros were as cryptic as ever. Brassica and Marimbo want nothing to do with this, thank goodness. As for Saradomin…”

“I assume he’s steadfast in his fundamentals,” Death said. 

“That would be putting it politely, yes.” She swirled the now semi-solid tea mixture in her cup. “Though you know I have far less nice ones to say to that.”

“I assume you kept it civil, at least?”

“Not exactly…”

* * *

Teiran stared at the White Knight in front of the door. Though his helmet concealed his expression, she could feel his glare through the darkness behind the visor. The sword he had pointed at her chest aided the effect.

“Look,” she said. “I really don’t want to force my way in. You lot are rather nice chaps, and Sir Tiffy had a bit of a row because of the last time...”

“Is that how being the World Guardian works?” the knight said. “You just bully and fight your way to whatever you want? Is there nobody holding you accountable to your actions?”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses.” He held the sword higher. “I’m not going to let a violent ruffian into the same room as the Lord Saradomin.”

“He’s a god!” Teiran protested. “I couldn’t lay a finger on him if I wanted to.”

“Nevertheless. I will not permit your entrance.”

She sighed. _Stubbornest damn knight I’ve ever met…_

“Let her in, Sir Theodore,” a voice behind the door boomed. “She likely has business to discuss.”

“Of course, my lord,” the knight said. He stepped aside, pulling the door open. She could feel the hard glare on her as she walked into the room, and as he carefully shut the door behind her.

Saradomin was on his throne, as usual. He seemed more tired than usual, she noted, and regarded her warily. 

“This is about the eclipse, is it not?” he said. “If you wish to know my stratagems, I will not divulge them to you. Your allegiance to me is nonexistent; your alignment to the goals I seek is tenuous, at best.”

“That’s a ‘no’ to you pulling out of this, then?”

“Why would I? Sliske’s game is a farce, of course,”Saradomin said. “And, as much as I wish to deny its credibility by refusing to participate, I cannot risk any of the other gods taking the stone.”

“The fewer gods that participate, the less bloodshed there will be.”

“What do you wish me to do? Stand aside while the usurper takes an artefact of unimaginable power?” 

“This could be another God Wars!” she snapped, struggling to keep her volume below a shouting level. “Another Battle of Lumbridge, but it’ll be a battle of Varrock, and Falador, and Ardougne, too… It won’t matter which one of you wins. Gielinor will lose.”

“No. I will win. I will not let this land drown in fire from a god of chaos,” Saradomin said, his face darkening. “I will take the stone, and I will wield it wisely, and protect this world from the threat of destruction — a duty, I note, you seem to be lackadaisical in performing.”

“The last time you wielded the stone, Guthix had to come along and clean up the mess you left behind,” she said, evenly as she could through clenched teeth.

“Only because Zamorak opposed me. I confiscated it from him for his crimes in betraying Zaros. If you truly called yourself the World Guardian, you would have disposed of him long ago.”

He paused. “I am doing this, you understand, for the greater good.”

“Oh,” she said. “The greater good. That’s a term I know _quite_ well.” She turned to the door. “I’d love to argue with you more, but I’ve got other gods to chat with today, and I need to keep my energy.”

Saradomin let out a heavy sigh. “I see potential in you, adventurer. You have good in your heart. I would hope that I could appeal to it.”

She stopped. “Your idea of ‘good’ is a little different from mine, I think.” 

“Hmmm.” She couldn’t see his expression, but she expected that it wasn’t a happy one. “May the most righteous succeed, then.”

* * *

Teiran took a swig of her tea, the sugar coating the back of her throat. “I’m actually surprised at myself. I managed not to call him anything rude this time around.”

Icthlarin, who was also sitting behind the desk, sniffed. “Saradomin’s involvement in this does not bode well. If conflict comes between him and Zamorak over the stone…”

“I know, I know.”

“What of Zamorak, by the way?”

“About that....”

* * *

Teiran was somewhat thankful that Zamorak now merely resided on the second floor of the Black Knight’s fortress, instead of far below Daemonheim. Moia’s teleportation device had long since stopped working, and she didn’t feel particularly inclined to spend a morning spelunking and fighting Blink.

He was reclining, now, on a rather ostentatious throne in the sanctum. Moia was watching her warily from the god’s right side, still as a statue in seeming resistance to the bustle of black knights around them. Teiran wasn’t sure whether it was Moia’s presence or her own that caused the knights to make a wide berth.

“You’ve proven to be an interesting case,” Zamorak said, with an intrigued glitter in his eye. “And you’ve well proven your abilities to me. Have you come to declare your allegiance to me?”

“If this is about the heist, that was months ago,” Teiran said. “And I would consider that more of a freelance gig, if anything. Our goals happened to align. I highly doubt they do this time around.”

“If so, then we have nothing more to discuss.”

“What are your plans, Zamorak?”

She noticed Moia stiffen, so slightly that it was barely perceptible. Zamorak remained unperturbed, simply raising an elegant eyebrow. 

“You said yourself that our business relationship is terminated,” he said. “Therefore, I have no reason to reveal my plans to you. You know my ideals, mortal. Freedom through chaos. Strength through defiance. If that does not tell you what my goals are, then I fear for your intelligence.”

“I’m not going to let you win it, you know.”

“You seem to forget that I have the power to destroy you.”

“You seem to forget that the last time you blasted a lightning bolt at me, it just made me angrier,” she said. “But I’ll let you experiment with that yourself.”

She then turned and left, the Kinshra parting before like a midnight sea.

* * *

The tea had, by now, congealed into a beigish crystalline mass clinging to the bottom of her cup, and Teiran began to regret tossing away her spoon. With a sigh, she set the cup down on Death’s desk. 

“Have you spoken to Armadyl, at least?” Icthlarin said. “He, of all the gods, would be the one to be most receptive to reason.”

“He isn’t in his usual spot,” she said. “I’ll see if we can catch him. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

Death steepled his skeletal fingers together, the bones clicking like jostled porcelain. “There are variables at play that we have not accounted for,” he said. “Nomad, for example. His soul has not passed to the veil, so I fear the worst for what Sliske has done to him. Not to mention: the entity you mentioned Sliske speaking to, when you discovered that projection…”

“Have you found anything about it?”

Death shook his head. “No. It surprises me, however, Sliske having a master.”

“The mahjarrat are not given to mastery,” Icthlarin said. “They have their loyalties, but they act as their own agents. If what you’re saying is true —”

“We will assume nothing for now,” Death said. “Only prepare. And it seems, unfortunately, that the only way we have a chance at the stone is to play the game.”

“There must be another way!” Icthlarin barked. “Sliske wants us to gather in one location. When he makes his appearance, as he did at the citadel —”

“He won’t be,” Teiran said. “Sliske might be an overconfident prick, but he’s not stupid. And he’s even less likely to show his face around me now.”

“Then we have no choice,” Icthlarin growled. 

“Indeed,” Death said. “What events shall transpire in the next three days is unknown. But whatever happens, we must not let the other gods take the stone.”

He turned to Teiran. “I would recommend you spend that time resting and preparing. Whatever Sliske has planned will likely be grueling. I would prepare to be gone for some time.”

She nodded. “I’ll meet you at the coordinates the day of.”

“At dawn.”

“Sure.” _Damnit._

* * *

Teiran opted to walk home, or at least part of the way home, as far as the sun would allow her as it descended with the emerging evening. She let her mind wander and paid only passing attention to the scenery; and it was in this way that she found herself walking almost automatically to Rimmington instead of Falador, on the same old footpath that she’d taken for nearly a decade.

 _Bugger,_ she thought, when she realized that she was about to cut through the mine. _It’s been two years since I’ve stepped through that house portal. Old habits, I suppose…_

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden darkness, as the world became covered in shadow. She tensed, pulling her whip from her belt and scanning the area around her for any sign of movement. 

“Sliske…” she said, warningly. 

“No,” a voice that was decidedly not Sliske’s said above her. “Someone friendler, I would hope.”

She looked up. Armadyl was perched on Melzar’s Maze, watching her with quiet interest. His huge form blotted out the sun behind him, leaving a stretched shadow that covered the mine Teiran was currently standing in. 

“Oh,” she said, sagging with relief. “I’ve been looking for you, actually.”

“I thought as such. I wish to speak to you, though I would prefer my eyrie than here. I can give you a lift, if you wish.”

Teiran looked the aviansie up and down. “I’ll walk, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He stretched his wings to take off, and then paused. “This energy…. Strange…”

“What?”

“Ah. It’s nothing,” Armadyl said, shaking his head. “I’ll see you soon.”

With that he ascended, his wings sending the loose dirt and gravel in the mine blowing around in a small sandstorm. Teiran covered her eyes, sputtering as she was bombarded with soil and grass clippings. _Maybe I should have taken the transport offer…._

Nevertheless, she made her way over to the god’s encampment, half-jogging up the spiral ramp that stretched around the tower. Armadyl was waiting for her at the top, perched in his usual place as he overlooked Falador. There were fewer clouds than the last time she’d visited him, and she could actually see the landscape below, now tinged ochre from the lowering sun. 

Wordlessly, she sat beside him and took in the scenery, which, not a month before, she’d seen from the back of a dragon. The god watched with her, the soft breeze ruffling the feathers on his neck. 

“So,” she said, breaking the silence. “I assume you got your invitation.”

“In the form of a paper aeroplane, no less. Sliske probably finds that amusing.”

“He would.”

Armadyl released a heavy sigh, tired and weary-sounding. “This game…”

“I already know what you’re about to tell me,” she said. “And I won’t try and convince you otherwise, because I doubt it will work.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, bowing his head. “If there were any other way —”

“Save it. Answer me this, instead. What do you want the stone for?”

“As I said before. To hide, it, and —”

“Hold it. Wrong question. What do you want for Gielinor?” She stared at him pointedly.

He seemed to think, for a time, before he answered. 

“Abbinah,” he began. “My home. It’s not far from here, though it is an old world. Much of its core is open and exposed, and the land above floats, broken and separated, in the thin atmosphere. It is home, yes. Harsh, and largely empty. Everything was scarce there — water. Food. Roosting places. Years to live. An aviansie wasn’t expected to survive long. And if they did, they made sure that they weren’t a drain on the meagre resources we had.”

He shuddered, his feathers puffing unhappily. “I thought my people had all but gone extinct after the God Wars. When I found them again after returning to Abbinah, I couldn’t have been happier… but even then, I could see that they were barely surviving. Their plumage was ragged, their eyes were dull… some of them didn’t even have the strength to fly. That is a death sentence to an Aviantese, both in the body and soul. I could not let it happen again.”

“So you brought them to Gielinor.”

“Yes.”

“And what do you plan now?”

“They… are happy here,” Armadyl said. “I could never rob them of that. We are finding old citadels, left over from the war, though some of them seem to have been requisitioned by your kind. Those we shall leave be. We can rebuild.”

He paused, closing his sharp eyes. “Guardian… if I come into possession of the stone, will you kill me for it?”

She breathed in sharply. “I don’t know. But I may have to.”

He nodded, slowly, as though he’d expected this answer. “If that is the case… or, if I am banished from Gielinor for any other reason… will you allow my people to stay?”

“I can’t promise that,” she said, carefully. “But… I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” He sagged with relief, his feathers smoothing down. “Please. That’s all I ask.”

She stood up then, taking in the landscape once more. The sun was nearly below the mountain again, casting a long shadow over the land and enveloping it in velvety darkness. Though the dying light’s rays still reached the tower, she could feel the night’s chill beginning to creep.

“Gielinor is my home, too,” she said. “Though it’s changed.”

“It has.”

“And it’ll probably keep changing. But it’ll still be my home. And I’ll do anything I can to protect it.” 

“I understand,” the god said. “And… I trust you.”

“How so?”

“To do the right thing.”

 _If I even know what that is, nowadays._ She turned away. “I’ll see you in three days, Armadyl. Whatever happens… be careful, ok?”

He nodded, his eyes glittering in the sinking sunlight. “I will.”


	68. Labyrinth

The next three days  _ should _ have been the slowest in Teiran’s life. Instead, they were nastily quick, as if time itself were mocking her for wanting it to be longer. She spent it waiting, rising too early on each day and packing and repacking her kit, reanalyzing every arrow and potion and purple sweet she was planning on taking. 

On the night before the eclipse she sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, her armour scattered around her as she scrutinized a certain helm. 

_ They don’t make these like they used to, _ she thought, tapping her fingers against the metal.  _ Nowadays they actually look like a dragon’s head, instead of a cut-up soup bowl with horns stuck in it… _

She had better headgear. She should be taking something made out of elder rune, or a masterwork helmet, or even a Torva’s, if only to complete the set. 

She sighed, putting the dragon helm aside. No time for sentimentalism. She’d need all the inventory space she could get. 

Marianne then poked her head into the room, tapping on the doorframe. “Feeling set for tomorrow, miss?”

“Not really,” Teiran replied, standing up and wincing at the prickly feeling in her legs. “Then again, I don’t think I ever will.”

“I’ve got two weeks’ provisions set and ready in the kitchen, miss.”

“Great. I’ll probably be up before you tomorrow, so just leave it there for me.”

Marianne nodded. “Do you think it’ll be enough?”

“I hope so,” Teiran said with a sigh. “Worst comes to worst, I can cast  _ Bones to Peaches _ if I run out, but I don’t fancy an all-fruit diet for days on end. In any case, I don’t think Sliske would have the attention span.”

The maid managed a small smile. “And… you’ll be back?”

“Eventually. You know I will.” She paused. “When this is all over…”

“What, miss?”

“Oh, I don’t know. But it’ll be better. I promise.” She paused again. “In the meantime… I know I said no more lock ins. But it’s probably best you lay low for two weeks. Sliske probably won’t try anything, but I wouldn’t put it past the other gods to try anything…”

“I’ve already told Ling,” Marianne said. “And sharpened the halberds. As well as the fireplace poker, miss, just to be safe.”

“That’s my girl.” With surprising suddenness, she grabbed Marianne in a hug, who returned it almost immediately. 

“Miss?” Marianne said, slightly muffled. “May I ask you one fa— um, request? If it’s not too much trouble.”

“What is it?”

“Can you please kick Sliske in the unmentionables?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

Nighttime. No reprieve. Teiran felt awash with both strange calmness and an uneasy tension, like she was staring at a still pond that held a crocodile beneath the scum. 

She closed her eyes, and tried to think of woodcutting. 

It was probably easy to think that somehow managing to kill Sliske would solve everything. That was a pitfall she’d care not to repeat. It wouldn’t erase the crater behind Lumbridge Castle, or make her forget about the Elder Gods, or banish the Saradomin away to a dimension with a helpful seminar on Leaving Gielinor Bloody Well Enough Alone. But it was nice to think about it. 

She missed woodcutting. 

In moments like this, Teiran used to put her arm on the side of the bed opposite hers, even when it was too small. Though she’d stopped doing it with practice and time, she now reached out, even when her hand met cold wall. 

She pulled it back, let it rest on the linen. The other two Guthixans would be with her tomorrow. But, even with that knowledge, she could still feel the creep of loneliness in the path ahead. 

Wordlessly, Teiran slipped from the bed. Padding over the freezing floor, she picked up the dragon helm from the floor where she’d left it. She unbuckled her bag, grabbing her Torva helmet and tossing it to the side and replacing it with the scarlet headgear in her hand. 

And then she slipped back into the still-warm bed, not even caring when her hand stretched over to her right — even when it met nothing. 

* * *

Before dawn even hit, Teiran left the house; it was still dark when she exited the portal, black as night time. Not even the parrots were awake, leaving Ardougne in silence.

She breathed in the early day’s air, and teleported to the Bandit’s Camp. Here, too it was quiet, and the moon was sliced by the horizon as it descended a purple-tinged sky. She headed south, pausing only to regard a smallish pyramid adjacent to her path, before continuing over the Elid. 

She saw Death before anything else, tall and stark against the dunes. Icthlarin was beside him, his stance relaxed.  _ He probably feels right at home, _ she thought, heading towards them. 

“Morning,” she greeted. “I would have brought donuts, but the Sandwich Lady doesn’t open this early. Is there anyone else here?”

“Not so far,” Death said. “Though I expect that won’t be the case for long. The other gods will soon arrive here.”

“Where is…  _ here, _ in any case?” She said, gesturing to the expanse of empty desert around her. The only distinguishing landmark was the far town of Nardah, unilluminated as its inhabitants undoubtedly slept on. “Unless Sliske’s having us do a sandcastle-building contest, I don't see this spot as being very special. Or theatrical.”

Icthlarin sniffed. “Anima,” he said. “This place is brimming with it. It’s deep down…” 

He closed his eyes, shaking his head as through to dislodge water from his fur. “But I’ve never noticed it before…”

“Sliske may have unearthed something,” Death said grimly. “And he is taking the opportunity to show it off. But we shall speak no more of this. Someone approaches.”

He was right; half a moment later, a flash of light came from the clear sky overhead, followed by a growl of thunder. There was a smell of ozone, and Saradomin materialized, leaving a patch of molten glass under his feet as he flashed into existence. Zilyana and Padomenes accompanied him, their wing feathers bristling in the desert cold. 

Saradomin eyed the trio. “Reaper,” he said, with a curt nod. “Icthlarin. World Guardian.”

“Saradomin,” Death said, simply. Teiran was tempted to make a remark about waking half the population of Pollnivneach, but she bit it back. Thus, the two factions stood, silently eyeing each other in the lightening dark. 

Armadyl was next to arrive, quietly descending from the sky with two other aviansie at his wings. To Teiran, he gave a nod; to Saradomin, he simply watched wearily. 

It was some time before the next arrival. The sun slowly peeked over the horizon, bringing the slow creep of the desert heat. 

Two hours passed. Icthlarin and Death seemed unaffected, as did the gods. Their entourages weren’t faring as well — Zilyana was shading herself unhappily with her wings, and Kree'arra had retreated to the shade of a nearby dune. 

Teiran took a draw from her waterskin.  _ Maybe I should have brought a beach chair… _

The sun was nearing its apex when she smelled it; old attics and ancient rooms and things best left long-dead. 

“Zaros,” she said, without turning around.”If you’re trying to sneak up on me, you’re not being very subtle about it.”

“I’ll resort to no such furtive measures,” Zaros said, his voice echoing to her front. “You merely fail to see what’s there.”

The god faded into view. Azzanadra and Char followed shortly after. Both seemed to be unperturbed by the desert heat; though when Azzanadra met her gaze, he gave her a long, calculating look before turning away. 

Zaros looked upward, the fading sun failing to lend any light to his voidish form. 

“It approaches,” he said. “Soon, the time will come for this farce to end.”

Teiran didn’t reply. She couldn’t look above her without burning her eyes, but she could already detect the shadow of the moon’s approach, as the sun’s glare began to weaken. 

The was reflectively fortunate, as Seren appeared soon afterward. She was flanked by a pair of elves Teiran didn’t recognize, and she managed to shield her eyes in time. However, glints of the goddess’s brilliance managed to escape through her fingers. 

“Brother,” Seren said, turning to Zaros. “It seems that we are all nearly accounted for.”

“Ha!” Saradomin snorted. “I’m sure Zamorak will show his traitorous face soon enough, though it will, no doubt, be at the last minute, if only to make some sort of juvenile statement…”

His assessment was correct. As the first edge of the moon began to peek over the disk of the sun, Zamorak appeared in a puff of smoke and sulfur. Moia was accompanying him, as well as a rather bulky-looking Kinshra, who looked exceedingly uncomfortable under his dark armour.

Zamorak said nothing; Saradomin looked as though he was going to argue with him when the eclipse began.

What had started as a slow dimness suddenly slid into a rapidly encroaching gloom. The sky darkened in a way that it shouldn’t have, as Zanaris slowly slid over the sun overhead. The midday heat was still  _ there _ , but the sky told her eyes that it was dusk. 

The skin on her arms and the back of her neck prickled. It felt  _ wrong, _ for it to be dark at noon. The air was slowly becoming cooler, though she could still feel residual warmth rising from the sand below. The dark continued to deepen, until it reached totality. Night stretched across the cold desert, and, for some reason that made her palm twinge, it felt familiar. 

“It starts,” Death said, his voice but a whisper. 

Something shifted in the gloom in front of them. It was the shape of a man, dressed in a black jacket and waistcoat, and an oddly-tall black hat with a wide brim. His eyes were concealed by a pair of dark-lensed glasses. He held his arms out stiffly, as though the joints were nonfunctional, and grinned, his ivory teeth glinting in the dying light. 

“Welcome,” he said, his voice containing a slight Morytanian lilt. “My master regrets that he cannot come and greet you now. He is, ah,  _ preparing _ for the grand finale.”

“He’s so busy,” Saradomin growled, “that he can’t come and even show his treasonous face?”

The man ignored him, and continued. “The goal is simple. Make it to the end of the labyrinth. Whoever reaches end first, wins the prize. Easy to understand?”

The assembled gods began to shout out their protestations, but the man continued to disregard them. “I will teleport you to the entrance now!” he said. “Maybe the best god win.”

He raised his hands, jerkily, as though to calp them together, but he suddenly paused. 

“One more thing,” he said. “My master has seen to it to even the playing field. And so, your divine powers will be nullified while you are in the maze. Some you will have to rely on your brains.” He glanced to Zamorak. “For some, this will be easier than others.”

The god of chaos let out a growl. The man merely grinned wider, revealing that his glistening teeth were unnervingly sharp. 

“Goodbye, now,” he said. “And good luck.”

He waved his hand, and Teiran saw the start of a teleport spell envelop Death and Icthlarin. She grabbed the reaper’s bony arm as he was wrenched away, hoping that whatever magic that kept him together was strong enough to prevent her from ripping it from its socket. 

The dark desert faded around them, replaced by green-greyish stone and an underground chill. Death stumbled a little as he landed, and she let go of him, tumbling onto the hard floor and hissing a curse through clenched teeth. 

“Damn him!” she said, pulling herself to her feet. “Was he trying to leave me out? Or did it just nullify?”

“I don’t know,” Death said gravely. “But if he has the power to remove divinity from the gods themselves…”

“I know.” She could  _ feel  _ it. The tug in her gut, calling her like a song. Her palm burned with a plaguing itch, and she felt a fire, long-forgotten in her chest, begin to flicker and burn. 

Icthlarin rose to his feet, shaking his head. “Strange,” he said, his voice more low and growling than usual. “This feeling…”

Death helped him to his feet. “Focus, old friend,” he said, patting him on the back. “This place has us all disoriented. 

Teiran scanned the room. She couldn’t see beyond the high walls of the bare chamber, but she could see the exits out of it. All looked identical. All led to corridors, long and winding. 

“We should get going,” she said, trying to suppress the feeling of dread bubbling in her chest. “I have a feeling there’s going to be puzzles.”

* * *

Teiran didn’t know how many days it had been in the strange, twisting maze. Everything within was illuminated by some unseen source, but the light stayed constant; it didn’t dim or lighten, even as hours passed.

_ If _ the hours even passed, that was. The whole place felt… stagnant. She wasn’t sure if it was the presence of the Stone of Jas, which remained annoyingly persistent, or Sliske’s shadow magic. She never felt tired; then again, she never felt particularly energized, either, even when she rested. She never felt hungry or thirsty — though she ate and drank all the same, if only for the sake of normalcy. 

She saw Death remove an hourglass from his robe, at one point, and scrutinize it for a moment. Though she only caught a glimpse, she was fairly sure that no sand fell. 

He then pocketed it, saying nothing; she, in turn, did not ask. 

There  _ were _ puzzles, of course. It wouldn’t be a maze made by Sliske without the damn things. In this aspect, at least, Teiran had good company; Death seemed to quietly enjoy the odd shadow and insignia contraptions that involved altogether too many knobs and pulleys for her taste. Icthlarin, in turn, was more apt at the riddles and cryptics, having honed his skills on the Sophanem sphinx. 

Teiran was very good at punching wights. She figured this was a fair exchange.

The trio’s encounters with the other gods had been few and far inbetween. They had crossed paths with Saradomin, early on; he had merely uttered a few angry words before disappearing down a corridor, flanked by his icyene guard. The god had seemed hurried, somehow — his face had been redder, and his stance was less proud. 

“He looked tired,” she later said, as Icthlarin scrutinized a riddle on the wall. 

“He is turning mortal,” Death said. “Just as Sliske has planned, I expect. That is the power of the Stone.”

“Is it permanent?”

“Unlikely.”

“Damn.” She gave the reaper a lookover. “You don’t seem to be affected by it, though.”

“I am not a god. Nor are you. In fact, I would suspect that the power applied to the gods now is similar to the kind that nullifies their effect on you.”

“Well, that evens out the playing field, at least.” As she said this, she noticed that Death was looking to Icthlarin, who was still enraptured in the puzzle. The god was growling, though not as she was used to — this was low and primal. Dog-like. 

“It’s getting to him,” Teiran said, horrifying realization slowly unfolding in her stomach. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know how much longer we have,” Death said. “Only that we must get to the Stone as soon as we can.”


	69. Poles Apart

Teiran took a swig from the long-lukewarm tea flask, watching Death fiddle with the dials on a light puzzle. Icthlarin was sitting next to her, lightly panting. In the days (or as much as she could approximate) that had passed, his fur had become more wild and bristled, and his tongue lolloped out of his mouth in a distinctly ungodlike way. 

Wordlessly, Teiran offered him the flask. Icthlarin took it and sniffed it, before dipping his tongue into it and lapping at the tea within. 

Teiran’s wide-eyed gaze caught his attention, and he froze; then, he sheepishly lowered the flask and offered it back to her, his ears flat against his head with embarrassment. 

She pushed it back towards him. “You can keep it.”

Death finished the puzzle, and the door to the next room slid open. As it did, the sound of distant voices poured out.

“My lord,” she heard what she approximated to Azzanadra say, low and pleading. “I know his actions are deplorable. But he is one of my own kind. One of the few left there are. He can be reasoned with.”

“He will merely betray us!” a female voice retorted, and Teiran discerned that it was Char. “Sliske has proven this to us, time and time again. This… this  _ pantomime _ must end in blood and fire.”

“Enough,” Zaros said, his usually-resonant voice quieter than usual. “Someone approaches.”

Teiran stepped into the room, Death and Icthlarin following her. 

“Am I interrupting something?” she said. Azzanadra and Char were glaring at eachother, though as Teiran entered, the mahjarrat turned his gaze to her, his eyes locked on with cold fury. 

Zaros stood between the two. The god looked more ethereal than usual, Teiran noted; the parts of him not concealed by armour or his robe were translucent, and even his vestments looked more ragged than usual. 

“World Guardian,” he greeted. “It was only a matter of time before our paths crossed.”

“It’s unfortunate, really,” Teiran said, crossing her arms. “I’ve been going out of my way to avoid you.”

“Then I shall trouble you no further,” the god said, turning away. “This ‘formality,’ if it is even to be called as such, will soon come to an end. As will Sliske’s part in it.”

“And then what?” Teiran said. “I know you’re aiming to win, Zaros.”

The god paused. “The concept of ‘winning,’,” he said slowly, “is a mortal one. Limited. Binary. Whatever the outcome of this will be, it shall transpire in my favour. Such is fate.”

At this point, Death stepped forward. He shook with anger — Teiran could hear his bones rattle under his robes.

“You disrupt the balance,” the reaper said, his voice quaking with barely-suppressed, threatening fury. “I do not know what your machinations are, Zaros. But I am sure that they will end in nothing but subjugation and destruction. Just as when I watched the empire rise — and fall.”

Zaros turned, slowly, his strange eyes revealing nothing. 

“It can be argued,” he said, “that life itself is an imbalance. Existence itself rages against entropy, which itself is the natural state of the universe. You claim to fight in order to preserve the balance. But I have seen true balance, reaper. And it is nothing.”

He turned towards the door. “Consider this carefully, Guardians of Guthix,” he said. “Consider what ideals you wish to fight for. And consider if the teachings of your god truly match them.”

With that, he left, taking Char and Azzanadra with him — the latter of whom regarded Teiran carefully, before following his god’s path. 

Teiran released a breath.  _ Prick. _

She glanced to Death, who was still with fury as he watched the entourage leave. 

“You do know,” Teiran said, “that he’s full of shit, right? He’s been around since the beginning of the universe, and he thinks that makes him very clever. All it really makes him is an ancient, pretentious ass. You know more about life than he could ever hope to.”

Death relaxed, by a degree. “You are correct,” he said. “And I would wager that it has also granted him gross overconfidence. This may give us an advantage.”

“Yeah,” she said distractedly. “Where’s Icthlarin, by the way?”

She turned around. Icthlarin, who’d been absent from their side for the duration of the conversation, was thoroughly invested in sniffing around a pillar. 

Teiran closed her eyes.  _ I really shouldn’t be thinking this, _ she said to herself.  _ But I ought to have brought a spray-bottle. _

* * *

There were more tunnels. There were more corridors, winding and indiscernible in their progression. Twice, they ended up going around in circles; twice, Teiran had to resist the urge to hit her head against the wall.

All throughout, Icthlarin continued to deteriorate. He spoke less and less, conveying his emotions more with growls and bared teeth than with words. His form was slowly becoming more hunched, as though he wished to drop on all fours. 

Death regarded him sadly; the reaper and Teiran now sat side by side, resting. It was more for Icthlarin than anything — pausing, it seemed, slowed his regression . He was curled up on the floor, now, sleeping. His limbs twitched every now and again, as though chasing something in his dreams. 

“It’s worse than I thought,” Death said, shaking his head. “I can see his soul now.”

“You can’t normally?”

“No,” Death said. “Gods do not have souls — not in the sense that mortals do, in any case. If they were mortal, they shed their soul upon ascension. As such, they forsake an afterlife with their divinity.”

“That’s… rather sad, actually.” She paused. “But if Icthlarin has a soul now…”

“I would not know what would happen to it,” Death said. “But I now know how he would die.”

Teiran stiffened. Icthlarin, still sleeping, rolled over, absent-mindedly scratching at his ear with a muffled grunt.

“How?” Teiran asked, softly. 

“...Badly,” Death said. “The rending of teeth. The taste of blood.” He covered his eyes with a bony hand, as though to block the scene from sight. “He died fearing for others… and that is what truly kills him.”

She looked at Icthlarin again, still sleeping peacefully, still blissful in his ignorance. 

“I…” Death said, his voice distraught. “I cannot allow that to happen. I won’t let him feel that pain.” He paused.

“Even if it breaks my oath. He is my friend, in this lonely lot. I cannot let him be repaid in agony.”

His tone was defensive; as Teiran looked to him, he could almost imagine his bony cheeks being flush with anger. 

Though the labyrinth’s magic supposedly didn’t affect him, she wondered, briefly, if Death was becoming more human. 

“I understand,” she stated, simply. 

And that was all that needed to be said.

* * *

Icthlarin rose, eventually, his poise somewhat returned. Even then, Teiran couldn’t help but notice how his tail was tucked between his legs as he stood.

They continued. The passageways continued to be frustratingly incongruent; at one point, Teiran had tried to climb the walls to get a better look at the place, only to find that the top was covered in spikes and broken glass. When she tried to break them off with her sword, she was awarded with a nasty electric shock.

_ Bugger. Sliske thinks of everything, _ she thought, as she patted out a small fire in her hair. With a defeated sigh, she headed to the door of the next chamber. 

To her surprise, it contained no puzzles; instead, there was a glowing portal, dominating the surface of one wall. 

And Sliske. He was standing next to it, grinning like a game show host, an oversized collar framing his leer.

Teiran didn’t hesitate. She produced a crossbow and fired at the mahjarrat, whose form merely rippled as the bolts passed right through him, impaling themselves in the wall.

Sliske wrinkled his nose. “ _ Rude, _ ” he said. “I project my image here to congratulate you on being first to make it halfway through the maze, and you respond by  _ shooting _ at me? Well, what do you have to say to tha —”

He was interrupted by another bolt, this one going through his face. Sliske pouted. 

“There’s no negotiating with terrorists, I suppose. Which is why I’ll make this next bit easy for you.”

He snapped his fingers, and the passage she emerged from was sealed by stone, cutting off Death and Icthlarin from her. 

The wall to her left opened, and she swung her crossbow towards it, acting on instinct — 

— right between the eyes of a terrified-looking Armadyl. 

Teiran froze, as did the god. The door slammed shut behind him, and she could hear the panicked squawks of Armadyl’s attendants behind it. Sliske grinned.

“Eager beaver!” he crowed. “And unlucky for  _ you _ , Armadyl, that this has to happen. Because here’s what I’m proposing!”

He grinned wider. “You get to kill him,” Sliske said. “Any way you please. Bolts, blade, fire, whatever. If you successfully murder him, I’ll give you a shortcut straight to the stone. Got it?”

He waved his hand, and the portal shifted. The purple-tinged magic cleared, revealing a long corridor — at the end of which she could see a familiar glimmer.

“You can call it an illusion, if you want,” Sliske continued, as Teiran felt her palm begin to burn. “But I think you’d know if it was, hmmm? And, even if it were a clever little trick — which I wouldn’t put past myself to do, oho! — you get a free potshot at a god! With whom I know you get along with like a barnacle to bookkeeping.”

Teiran said nothing, frozen in place. Armadyl looked at the bow, then to Sliske, and then to her again.

The god looked smaller. His eyes had less of a glint to them, and he stooped, more than stood. Though he was still, soft down fell from him like snow; and Teiran could see that his wings were ragged, the feathers dulled and split.

“So,” Armadyl said slowly. “It comes to this.” His eyes flicked to the stone, distant and glittering, and she could see its light reflected in his eyes. 

“Well?” Sliske said. “One shot. You’ve hunted birds before, haven’t you, for the pretty feathers and the xp? I’ve just set the snare for you. All you have to do is make the kill. He’s mortal now — I’d say one shot would take him out.”

She could  _ feel _ the damn thing. It was like it was  _ singing _ to her, for Guthix’s sake. She wanted to run to it, to grab it and let it make her blood boil and her veins burn, even from this far away. With that kind of fire in her, and the gods rendered helpless, she could solve everything....

Armadyl let out a sigh and closed his eyes, letting his head bow. 

“If this is the way it is,” he said, his voice quiet and low, “then so be it. All that I ask is that you leave Kree’Arra and Taw’Paak be. They will not harm you.”

Her finger was on the trigger. One shot. Easy and clean. One less god to contend with…

A memory rose to her, bidden by a singular word:  _ Snare _ .

* * *

Humidity. Greeness. The distant stench of sulfur from Oo'glog. She’d caught a bird in a snare, for the very first time, and she watched it struggle, upside down, to wrench its feet free from the trap.

She’d killed things before — rats and cows and chickens, and even a human or two, when a highwayman had chanced upon her on the way to Varrock. But, for some reason, the wimpy bird she’d caught was different. While it had flapped wildly in the trap, when she picked it up it froze, looking at her with eyes widened. Its wings had fallen limp, and the only movement from it was in its downy chest, which was rising and falling with terrified rapidity. 

She had held it in her hand and looked at this little thing, which seemed to have given up, frozen as it waited for death. And though she had shed blood before, she couldn’t bring herself to do it that time.

In the end, she’d let the bird go.*

* * *

Armadyl remained still, his eyes still closed, his head still bowed. 

Slowly, hand shaking, Teiran lowered the crossbow.

“Hmmm?” Sliske said. “What are you doing? Have you gone soft?”

A bolt struck the wall next to him, embedding itself deeply in the stone with a sound like cracking thunder.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Sliske said. “Care to explain this little plot inconsistency?”

Teiran looked at him. “No.”

Sliske let out a beleaguered sigh. “Your loss, then!” 

He snapped his fingers, and the portal reappeared, taking away the Stone’s warmth and call with it.

“You two,” he said disgustedly, “have fun here playing kumbaya on a banjo or whatever. Or kill eachother! See if I care!”

He let out a huff and disappeared, leaving the pair alone. The other doors remained closed. Teiran headed over to the one she’d entered through and gave it an experimental kick. 

It refused to budge. She pressed her ear to it, and found that she could hear Death’s voice on the other side, albeit faintly. 

“Perplexing…” he muttered. “These shadow puzzles are getting more and more... Icthlarin!  _ No!  _ Let go of the leg! Down, boy! I beseech thee!”

Teiran pulled herself away.  _ I think they’ll be awhile. _

She turned around, and was surprised to see Armadyl was still there, crouched on the floor. She walked over and sat next to him, saying nothing.

“You…” Armadyl started. “You continue to surprise me, World Guardian.”

“I tend to do that.” She was looking at the portal now, the magic within shimmering; what lay beyond it, she didn’t know. 

Armadyl shifted his stance, shedding a few feathers in the process. He chuckled, picking one up in his talons and scrutinizing it with bemusement. 

“I’m  _ moulting, _ he said, almost proudly. “I haven’t moulted in centuries, practically since I was a fledgeling.”

She looked him up and down, concealing a grimace at his bald, patchy spots and exposed down. “You, er, look great!”

He laughed again. “Oh, don’t flatter me. I look  _ dreadful. _ Isn’t it wonderful?”

“I can’t say that would be a popular opinion among the gods.”

“Let them think what they think,” Armadyl chuckled. “I’m mortal again. And I haven’t realized how much I’ve missed it.”

He sighed. “Immortality is so very numbing, Teiran. After a time, you feel as though you’re watching the whole world go by you through a pane of glass… maddening and dulling. The only reason I haven’t gone insane is my people.”

Armadyl let out a hollow laugh. “And to think I would be so arrogant as to believe I could change the world…”

“But you’re a god,” Teiran said. “Can’t you?”

“Not as much as you would believe,” he replied. “This is a lesson I paid for in blood. The world can be changed, I have found; but in small ways. And for those who matter to you most. And perhaps that  _ is _ what matters the most, in the end. For where does justice have the most impact but for those it is levied on?”

He looked up to the ceiling and closed his eyes. “Now if I could only see the sun again… perhaps if I were to feel it now, it would be all the warmer…”

Teiran said nothing, simply staring at the god as he became lost in thought. 

The doors began to rattle and shift, and Armadyl stood. 

“Our entourages seem to be rejoining us.”

“Yes.” Teiran stood as well, shaking away the numbness in her legs. “We should probably go our own ways.”

“Indeed.” Armadyl seemed to consider something; to her surprise, he pulled a loose feather from his wing and offered it to her. 

Her eyes widened. “I can’t accept this.”

“Please,” Armadyl said. “It’s little more than a sentiment. But it is one that is well-earned.”

She took it, wordlessly, and tucked it in her pack with great care.

At this moment, both doors burst open. Aramdyl’s attending aviansie swooped in, squawking wildly, and Death rushed forth, his scythe at the ready. 

“Stand down!” Armadyl screeched. “She means no harm!”

Teiran glanced to Death. “It’s alright,” she said. “Did the puzzle hold you up?”

“I would prefer,” Death said icily, “not to discuss it.”

“Where’s Icthlarin?”

Death wordlessly pointed behind him. 

Icthlarin padded into the chamber, hunched so low he was nearly touching the ground. The glow had all but faded in his now all-black, vacant eyes. His ears twitched as he sniffed the places around him, his tongue hanging out in a decidedly un-godly fashion. 

“Guthix above…” Teiran whispered. “He’s that far gone?”

Death nodded. “And I fear we may not be able to restore him until the end of this trial.”

The reaper’s expression, as always, was inscrutable beneath his hood, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed a deep worry. 

“Stay with him,” she said. “I’ll go on ahead.”

“Under no circumstances!” Death said. “You will, no doubt, run into other gods —”

“And I can handle them,” she said. “Icthlarin is more at risk than I am at this point. It’ll be faster if I forge on — I’ve picked up enough from you and him that the door locks shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Death looked as though he were about to argue, but Teiran shook her head. 

“Please,” she said.

Death looked to Icthlarin, who was now scratching himself behind the ear with his hind leg. Slowly, he nodded. 

“The weight of Gielinor,” he said, “rests on this.”

“I know,” she said. “And I’ll make good on it.”

“Very well.” He paused. “Be careful out there, do you understand? Frank is handling the desk at the moment, and I would prefer that you not see him.”

“Trust me, he won’t.” She managed to smile, if a little wanly. “And if you see any purplish projectiles flying overhead, that’ll be me drop-kicking Sliske out of this damn maze.”

With that, she turned to the portal, next to which she was — for the third time that day — surprised to see Armadyl. 

“I’ll let you take the lead,” he said. “You came first, after all.”

“Fair enough.” She faced the portal, the magic concealing its destination. “Good luck, I suppose.”

“The same to you,” he said. “And… Teiran?”

“Yeah?” 

“No matter the outcome…” he paused. “I trust you.”

She nodded. “And I’ll do good on that.”

With that, she stepped through, heading off to trials unknown. 

* * *

* _And ended up switching to kebbits, which turned out to be more lucrative in any case._


	70. Lonesome

Teiran said little as she passed through the maze’s corridors, save for the occasional muffled grunt or curse as she fought a miscellaneous wight or fumbled her way through a puzzle. Silence was her only companion, only occasionally intruded upon by the echoing grind of a door or the slosh of her tea flask. 

Now and again she thought she could hear a shout or cry or clash of metal, and each time she did it made her give pause; however, it nearly always turned out to be nothing. 

Nearly. 

When the door she’d just unlocked pulled open, she didn’t expect to see the figure kneeling on the ground, its head bowed low. She thought it was a statue for a moment when it sobbed, heaving as it did so, and she then noticed the distinctive pronged headpiece. 

“Azzanadra?” she said, her voice unusually soft from disuse. The figure stiffened, but did not look up; nevertheless, Teiran kept her hand on her whip.

_ “Leave me _ ,” he said. His voice was a low growl — barkish, almost, and close to the vicious langue she’d heard the mahjarrat argue in back on the plateau. It sent a chill down her spine; however, she continued to step forward.

“Did something attack you?” she said. “Where’s Zaros and Ch—”

“Leave me!” He roared, and  _ now _ he looked to her; and she saw that his eyes had turned nearly all-black, glowering with some internal heat and fury. He was crying, red-tinged tears streaking down his stony cheeks, which was almost the most disconcerting thing about him.

She froze, her hand still near her whip. “Did… did something happen?”

“That doesn’t concern you,” he said, his tone icy. “And what you see now is something you’d best forget. I have asked Lord Zaros to continue without me. By now, he is likely far ahead of you. You would best continue if you’re delusional enough to think you still have a hand in this race.”

“Fine, then,” she said. She scanned the room, looking to catch some sign of a trap or ambush. However, there was nothing; only an open door to her left, revealing nothing more than an empty corridor. 

She crossed the chamber, never taking her eyes off the mahjarrat, who watched her with hunted wariness. When she reached the exit, something compelled her to pull the door shut behind her, and she heard Azzanadra sigh, as though in relief, or perhaps gratitude; before it thudded closed, she heard him mutter, painfully:

“Alotor… Alotor, I’m sorry…”

* * *

Teiran still stayed silent as she crept through the hallways, perhaps more so because she was occupied by her thoughts than anything else. Everything she did was on autopilot, even the puzzles, which had slowly changed from being headache-inducingly hard to merely tedious. 

But no matter how many riddles she solved or shadow-masks she rearranged, she couldn’t scrub the image of Azzanadra, hunched over and weeping, from her mind… 

The mahjarrat had always been an enigma to her. Lucien was perhaps the one she’d interacted with most, next to Wahisietel and Azzanadra, and she’d come to the conclusion that they were all invariably mad. 

But after seeing that… hell, even after seeing Khazard after she’d told him about his mother… 

The mahjarrat would probably always be an enigma, she concluded. And maybe it was best that they stay that way. 

She was, thus, distracted in this way when she entered the next room, and thus did not notice anything out of the ordinary, right up until she nearly burned her hand on a melted shadow-puzzle dashboard. 

She jumped away from the steaming lump of metal, pulling her weapons free of her belt and scanning the room around her.

It was empty, save for the former dashboard. She looked around in confusion, wondering if she would have to fish out her ring of visibility when she heard the growl above her. 

She looked up. There was a dragonkin there. It was rather large. And it looked angry. 

Teiran froze. Every muscle in her body seized, while the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck pricked to life. Her heart was jackhammering in her chest as a scream rose and stuck in her throat, unable to escape.

The dragonkin was perched on the wall, the triggered electricity ineffectively crackling along its claws. It made no sound or movements, simply watching her with reptilian eyes. Though its mouth was closed, its nostrils glowed with the promise of an inferno. 

The two stared at eachother for several heated moments. Despite every thought in Teiran’s brain screaming to move, her body refused to listen, and thus remained stuck, as her heart beat away and her chest began to ache with each shallow breath she took. 

Eventually, the dragonkin seemed to relax. It spread its wings, using them as an impromptu parachute as it dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. Its claws scratched along the floor, and it rose to its full height: towering and radiating with heat. 

It took a breath, and Teiran tensed, ready for the inevitable firestorm. 

Instead, it spoke. 

“Peace,” it growled, its voice both gravely and dissonant. “I mean you no harm. For now.”

_ Now  _ did she feel her throat unclench, and found herself able to speak again. “You’re..” she said, almost choking. “You’re... “

“Yes,” it said, cutting her off. “I am a dragonkin. Your encounters with my kind have usually ended in violence, which is why you are frozen like a prey-animal in this moment. However, I have no intention to kill you.”

“Who are you?” she said, seizing on the first question that crossed her mind. “Were you in the plateau, with Lucien, and the Stone…?”

“No,” it replied, in more than a hiss than a growl. “My brothers that you saw were far more driven to rage than I am. My name is Kerapac, and that is all you need to know of me.”

“Why are you here? How did you get in?”

“I have my… methodologies. And I am here for the same reason as you are: the Stone.”

As he said the last word, he spat it like he’d spoken an oath: pained and disgusted. Teiran tensed again, and she could see the fire in his snout had become a little brighter.

“What do you want it for?” she asked, carefully. 

“For the same reason as you do, Guardian,” Kerapac said. “To destroy it.”

Her eyes widened. “Why? And... how?”

The dragonkin let out a long snort, sending a faint stream of smoke emitting from his nostrils; though he was several feet away, she could feel the heat of it, strong as the Blast Furnace.

“My method is not for you to know,” he said. “And the Stone of Jas has been an object of pain to my race for eons. I have seen my kin, one by one, fall to its curse and be consumed by rage, reduced to mindless animals in their agony. I am able to resist it, though barely.”

He sniffed. “You carry its power within you… latent, wriggling. There is part of me that longs to rip it from your chest, for your insolence —” at this, Teiran stiffened “— but yet, I do not. This alone is a testament to my self-control.”

Teiran relaxed, if only slightly. “Why does it cause you so much pain?”

“The Elder God, for which the wretched thing is named,” Kerapac growled. “The Stone was bound to us for our insolence in defying her. Forever cursed to be its guardian… forever cursed to feel its twist whenever it was falsely used.”

He let out a low, deep growl. “He is here… the pretender who calls himself Zamorak… and the mahjarrat concocting this scheme… oh, to rend their  _ sokun _ flesh from their bones would be sweetness beyond imagination…”

He let out a snort. “But to end this pain forever… sweeter still…”

Teiran took a step back, as quietly and noticeably as she could. “What part do I have in this, then? Hasn’t Sliske detected you yet?”

" _ Skethzzzzz _ ,” he chuckled, his voice low and buzzing. “That  _ vosk _ thinks he has such command over the stone that he may see all.  _ Vor.  _ He is blinded by his own insolence.”

He grinned, revealing a set of pearly white teeth. “Play the game, human. Deceive the False User into thinking he is in control. And do not betray me. For if you do…”

He let out a pair of flames through his nostrils, burning so hot and cleanly that they were nearly clear, detectable only by a heat so strong Teiran swore she could feel the hair on her hands singe. 

“Farewell, World Guardian,” he growled. “Remember my words.”

With that, he took off, sailing over the top off the wall to parts unknown. 

* * *

Teiran stayed where she was for a full moment before collapsing, her entire body feeling as though it were unraveling and melting at the same time. Her heart still raced, and she took several heady gulps of air before her head was even clear enough to think straight again; her hands shook, though she willed them not to. 

When they stopped shaking, and when the air felt like air again instead of a desperate limited commodity, she rose to her feet and continued on, her thoughts now fully occupied by the image of fire.

* * *

Teiran continued, now in a more hunted fashion. She searched each room top-to-bottom with her eyes and paused around each corner; even short breaks did little to ease her tension, as  she waited between sips of tea and bites of biscuits for something to leap out and ambush her. 

The words of the dragonkin bobbed and resurfaced in her mind, inevitably chased by memories of burning. So she shoved them, deep down, and tried not to think of what may be swooping overhead.

At one point, she sat on the ground and took out a certain helm, looking as though she was about to say something to it; instead, she simply stared at it in silence, searching its surface for answers but finding none. With a sigh, she packed it away and continued forward, her motions just as stiff and hunted as before. 

When Teiran heard the sound of shouting behind the next set of doors, she froze again; however, when she recognized the voices behind it, her fear melted away, replaced by something far hotter.

She took a step back and kicked the door in, feeling the stone crack under her boots.

“What the hell is going on here?!”

Saradomin and Zamorak both looked to her, almost a little sheepishly. They each held a glowing spell in their hands, likely ready to strike. Their entourages were similarly posed to attack, though they now remain still alongside their masters.

Saradomin was first to speak. “Mortal,” he said, “we —”

“What? Having a friendly little disagreement over a difference in philosophy?” she spat. “Or perhaps arguing about the location of your next tiff? The Seers’ Village is  _ lovely _ this time of year, you know. I’m sure scorched land and random land-mines scattered in Catherby will really add a special touch to the place.”

Zamorak scowled. “This does not concern you, W—”

“Guess what!” she roared. “This does  _ fucking concern me,  _ you twin pair of dipshits!”

All the tension she’d carried with her had snapped, dangerously as an overtightened bowstring. She’d been filled with nothing but strangeness and fear and doubt and vaguery for the past gods-didn’t-even-know-how-long, all collected into a hot little ball of twisted anxiety in her chest. 

And now she’d found the perfect release.

“I’m the World godsdamn Guardian, as you keep calling me,” she hissed. “And did I want this title? Do you think I wanted to be pulled into this… this bullshit? No! I’d rather be at home, practicing fletching or fighting hill giants or doing things adventurers do! But here I fucking am. Left to babysit a bunch of gods who are squabbling over Gielinor like kids over mud pies!”

Saradomin’s face darkened. “You dare —” 

“I DARE!” she screamed, so loudly that it rumbled throughout what she suspected was the entire maze. “You fighting right now is what Sliske wants! He’d rather you argue until your faces are blue — or even bloody bluer, at least — and until RuneScape’s a smoking ruin because he thinks it would be  _ fucking funny _ . And you’re playing right into his hands!”

“Mortal,” Zamorak said, “I do not think you understand —”

“Understand  _ what _ ?” she snapped. “The implications? The worries of gods? What’s at stake here? Do either of  _ you _ understand? Sliske’s kidnapped my friends. He’s warped one of my allies into a monster. I had to kill a god made out of  _ screaming souls. _ Souls of people I knew! He’s invaded my dreams. He’s made me fight a twisted version of the man I loved. He’s manipulated me. He’s tortured me. All because you want to sit in a fucking throne and rule this place.”

She took a breath, shuddering and furious. Her whole body was shaking, and it felt like fire was licking across her skin. She wasn’t sure it was the Stone of Jas. She wasn’t sure if it was simply the anger. But, gods, it felt  _ good. _

“You can bicker all you want,” she said. “But when the cards are up and the time comes, and you threaten Gielinor with your petty bullshit,  _ I will come calling. _ ”

Both gods were shocked into stunned silence; for a full minute, neither said anything, until Saradomin once again broke the silence. 

“World Guardian,” he said. “You have endured much. Truly. And I respect that. But I would watch your tone —”

At that point, Teiran punched him. It landed quite solidly on his cheek, and as she curved the strike she felt his nose crunch under his knuckles. It knocked the god over, and he landed with a mortal thud on the ground, his robes and hands flying as he fell. 

Everyone froze. Zilyana and Padomenes looked to her with wide eyes. While she couldn’t see Zamorak’s expression, she thought she heard a snort come from behind her. 

So, just for good measure, she whipped around and punched him, too. 

The mahjarrat’s face was considerably harder under her fist, but it wasn’t the first time she’d hit one. This one struck Zamorak in the eye, and she wondered if he would sport a blackened spot where it landed. He’d probably consider it a fashion statement, she reflected. 

Teiran stepped back, watching as Zamorak swayed and, like his opponent, landed bum-first on the ground. She let out a breath, feeling the tension rush away from her muscles.

“I’m done here,” she said. With that, she turned towards the door and exited, letting it thud shut behind her as she did. 

When it closed, she released a sigh. And then considered the heavily-armed entourages that were probably now awakening from the stupor of divine assault. 

With the pertinent realisation now taking up the entirety of her thoughts, she broke out into a sprint, not pausing to look behind her.

* * *

Teiran kept running, propelled by fear and; fury at the gods, fury at fate, fury at everything that had come up to this moment; and in fear of teeth and flames that she was altogether too familiar with. 

There weren’t even any puzzles, at the point. Only corridors, only open doors, and her feet pushing, pushing, pushing forward to something that she couldn’t name, but that pulled her forward nonetheless. 

When she reached the final door it burned everywhere within her. In her stomach, in her eyes, in her veins and everywhere else, but most of all her hand. It was a beautiful kind of pain, she remembered later, like remembering something long gone and lost, but still craving it with an addictive wanting. 

She pushed the door open, and there it was. Glowing, glittering, flickering at the end of the massive chamber she’d entered. It was positioned at the end of two precarious-looking rampways, riddled with gaps and rocks, but she didn’t care. Every nerve in her body was screaming, starving for it; every thud of her heart was filled with a desire for its power. 

Something in the back of her head told her she should resist it, but it was drowned away by the light and the memory of all the times before. She stepped forward.

As she did, she heard a noise next to her. She turned, and saw Armadyl emerge from a chamber door beside her own. His eyes caught her, and they, too, were filled with the artefact’s glitter. 

The room was then filled with laughter; mocking, booming. 

“Two contenders!” Sliske’s voice said, coming from some unseen source. “The god and the Guardian. Who will win? Only your will to win can tell. Run, you fools!  _ Run _ !

Teiran bolted, all rational thinking going to her legs and muscles and furious instinct. She got a bit of a head-start, and then a bit more as Armadyl took to the air. She felt stone crack as her feet struck the ramp, vaulting over gaps and biting into the rock with her heels — anything, anything to go faster. 

Though she practically flew, Armadyl had the advantage of actual wings, and he was soon upon her, trailing feathers as he went. She barely spared him a glance as she kept running, even as her muscles and head and heart screamed. She was halfway there, and the stone was all she could see; a miniature sun that blotted out everything else.  _ Nearly there… nearly there... _

Armadyl let out a cry, and he was ahead of her by a metre; by two; by five; and she felt tears burning in her eyes as she willed her useless, stupid legs to go faster,  _ faster _ ….

He was at the end of the ramp now, his hand outstretched; in a moment, his talon would touch the stone and it would be over,  _ faster, faster, fuck!  _ Faster _! _

And then he stopped, as though he’d run into a hard barrier mid-air. Her feet acted on instinct, and she found herself skidding to a stop as well, flailing as she attempted to keep her balance, before she, too halted. 

The Stone stood before the both of them, and Armadyl stood beside her. Teiran panted, gulping in air as she tried to ignore the simultaneous shriek of every thought in her brain to reach out and grab it; the only reason she didn’t was the look in the god’s eyes. 

Though Armadyl’s gaze was nearly white with the glow of power, she could not deny the sadness it held; and he turned away from the Stone’s brilliance and bowed his head. 

“World Guardian,” he said. He then looked to her, and tears glimmered on his feathery cheeks. “I trust you.”

He stepped back, and she understood both his intention, and that the look he was giving her was one of grief. 

She nodded, slowly. Though her thoughts and nerves and body were still screaming, they were more like the roar of the sea than that of a beast; distant, background. 

She stepped forward, slowly, slowly, each footfall feeling like an earthquake. Though the stone’s light burned her eyes she did not close them; though her hand sported a blossom of agony, she did not pull away. 

Her fingertips brushed the surface, and she was seized by it once more: The power of creation. The fire of destruction. The sheer, raw, painful force of the Stone of Jas.

* * *

_ There was nothing this time. No caves. No greenery. No sand or space or stars; only comforting white, like you would see through a sheet of linen drying in the sun. _

_ “The Stone,” the voice said. It was female. Lonelier than Teiran remembered. More unsure. More afraid. “The Stone… it did all this?” _

_ “Yes.” Guthix’s voice was just as old as when she’d first heard it; if anything, it was even more tired than before. “This land will likely be forever cursed, scorched indelibly by the sheer intensity. I fear nothing will grow here ever again.” _

_ “But…” the voice said, now hopeful. “If it can destroy, can’t it be used to heal again? We can fix this. Grow the grass, bring the trees in again…” _

_ “No.”  _

_ “Why not? For every action, there is a reaction. For every way, there is a byway. That is the way of balance. That is your teaching.” _

_ Guthix sighed. “Some things are irreversible, child. It is hard to understand. But though this object is full of might, it will bring only ruin. No life can come from it. Only death. _

_ “What will fix Forthinry, then?” _

_ “Time,” he said, with another sigh. “Time, and care. Though I fear… ah, never mind.” _

_ The voice paused, not replying for some time.  _

_ And then: “What do we do with it?” _

_ “Hide it,” Guthix said. “Conceal it, from those who seek to abuse its power. Then maybe, perhaps, Gielinor may know peace again. Perhaps not forever. But for a little while.” _

_ The voices then hushed to a quietness she couldn’t hear, whispering like the wind through the leaves. The whiteness began to fade to black, as did the sound; however, Teiran thought she heard, as the light and the voices began to disappear: _

_ “And to protect the Stone until such a time as, near to death, whereby you are relieved of all duties, and shall henceforth be returned to your home plane with the gratitude and blessings of Guthix….” _

* * *

The world returned to her, as did her senses. There was the power again, like it had never left; a sleeping dragon in her belly, now awoken. Teiran’s body was a tripwire again, and everything within her thrummed, making her feel all but weightless.

Armadyl’s aura was a brilliant yellow, warm like a flame, though faint. The other gods were arriving, she saw; Saradomin was next to him, the power around him flaring and blue. Zamorak was next, a black and red inksplot on his surroundings; then Seren and Zaros, opposed in their light and their darkness, but similarly jagged and crystalline. 

And then, of course, the shadowy blob on the edge of them all, slowly fading into view. Teiran did not relinquish her touch on the stone, even as she swore she could feel the skin on her fingertips singe and char.

Sliske stepped forward, his arm tucked into his robe. Teiran gripped the handle of her whip, ready, awaiting a strike as he pulled his arm free and — 

Threw some confetti on her. Most of it landed in her face, and she spent a few unceremonious moments spitting it away as it stuck to her. 

“Congratulations!” Sliske said, grinning more widely than she’d ever seen him grin before. “What a race! What tension! What narrative excitement! Oh, I was at the edge of my seat the entire time — I have to say, Armie, that little forfeit you pulled at the end? Beautiful! If there was an award for this sort of thing, by golly, you’d get it!”

“But of course,” he continued, turning to Teiran, “to the victor go the spoils. So, tell me, World Guardian!” He clapped his hands together. “What will you do with the stone?”

She looked at the assembled gods before her. Armadyl was watching her carefully; Seren and Zaros were customarily expressionless. Saradomin looked outright furious, and she noted the bandage he now sported across his nose. Zamorak looked ready to attack, or perhaps run. 

_ All of them in one go, _ a voice in the back of her head told her.  _ All the gods. And Sliske, too. Maybe keep Armadyl around, he could be useful, and he’s not that bad. But there’d be no more battles. No more trickery. No more deals. No more watching over your shoulder at everything; no more keeping Marianne in the house. No more god-level headaches. Things could go back to the way they were before. You could sleep in. You could  _ do _ things. Life can be normal again. Life can be good. Maybe even better than before. _

There was another voice, as well. It was much quieter. It was much less appealing-sounding. It was a lot more succinct. 

_ No. _

“No,” she said aloud. “I’ll do nothing with the Stone.”

There was dead silence. The assembled gods looked at her with shock; save for Aramdyl, who simply nodded. Sliske let out a snort, his grin turning from smug to one of disbelief.

“Nothing?!” he said, incredulous. “Nothing? At all?”

He gestured to the crowd. “Do you know whose presence you are in?”

“I’m quite aware.”

“And, erm, didn’t you express at multiple points that you wanted to  _ destroy them all utterly and irreversibly?” _

“Maybe, yeah.”

“Then… why… you…” he sputtered. “The Stone! It’s right there! Enough destruction to go around!”

He pointed to Zamorak. “Go on! He’s the god of evil! Get rid of him once and for all, and you’ll never have a Lumbridge Crater ever again!”

He pointed to Saradomin. “And him… oh, you and him get along even worse! Do you know how many innocents he’s sent to slaughter? Do you know how many people he’s brainwashed with his ‘lord of light and justice’ nonsense?”

He gestured to Zaros and Seren. “And these two! You know, if you’d actually done their entire questlines then you’d  _ really  _ have a bee in your bonnet about them.”

Sliske looked at her blankly. She returned the gesture. 

“Go on!” he said. “Destroy them! Smite them! Turn them all into frogs and throw them in a volcano! Guthix may be preventing you from becoming a god, but with the stone at your side, you can do anything! Kill them!”

“No.” Her voice echoed throughout the cavern; for a moment, it sounded like two people were speaking at once, adding to its strength. 

“There’s been enough bloodshed around this damn thing, Sliske,” Teiran said. “How many people have died for it? How many people have died  _ because _ of it? 

She turned to the gods, still watching her warily. “Killing you would make things easier. But I’m not about to add to the body count. If I’m going to save Gielinor…” 

She pulled her hand away from the Stone, a little regretfully, as she felt the power within her begin its inevitable drain. “I’m not going to use this.”

Sliske’s face turned purple, and he looked as though he were about to explode, quaking with anger. Zaros floated forward, his voidish form paling in wake of the stone’s light. 

“You have made a wise decision, World Guardian,” he said. As he said this, Teiran felt the anger from before beginning to boil in her chest again. “This object is not meant to be handled by mortals. Not even by most gods. Now, if you hand it over to me —”

“I’m not.” The words cut like a knife, and even Zaros seemed to be taken aback. However, it took him less than a second to regain his composure. 

“You do not comprehend the magnitude of the threat this holds,” he said. “I will say this now: If you do not give me the stone, I will be forced to destroy you.”

“Oh? Really?” She slowly clenched her fist, appreciating the power that crackled across her knuckles as she did so. “I’d like to see you try.”

As she said this, something made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. The air changed; she smelled, faintly, distantly, but undoubtedly, the stench of smoke and scorch. 

She stiffened. Suddenly, her own voice — she could have sworn that it came from her own head, but it sounded all the world like it was being whispered in her left ear, told her:

_ “Duck.” _

She dropped to her knees, throwing herself to the ground and pulling her hands over her head for good measure. She heard a roar, savage and feral, fill the chamber, as well as the flap of leathery wings. 

“WE WILL NO LONGER BE SLAVES!” it bellowed; the gods shouted, and she heard Sliske shout a mahjarrat oath. There was a sound, like dragging a wet finger along a wine glass, and flashing light; she felt intense heat on her back, and then a crack coming from the stone behind her. 

The Stone of Jas exploded. 

It showered her with hot rock, burning her exposed skin where it landed; though it was covered, her palm burned the most of all, and she let out an involuntary shriek. The sound was tremendous and left her ears ringing, paired with a sudden dizziness as the artefact’s power left her all at once.

When the dust settled, she dared to look up. Kerapac was flying away, carrying a long, stafflike object in his claws. 

She stood up, herself off. The dais that the stone was on was empty, and where she’d heard the debris land she could see nothing but dust, mixing invariably with the dirt and sand on the floor.

“Well,” she said, still in disbelief as she brushed herself off. “That makes my job a little easier.”

Sliske, who had been knocked to his feet by the blast, let out a long, drawn-out groan. As he stumbled to his feet, he looked to the dais where the stone had once been. 

“What?” he sputtered, swaying. “ _ What _ ?”

“The game’s over, Sliske,” Teiran said. “Your time’s come.”

“Over?” he said, his voice high-pitched and childish. “Over?” 

The mahjarrat grinned, but not like he ever had before. All the other times had been smug and evil and disgusting, but this one was far wilder. His teeth glinted and his eyes glittered with madness, locking straight onto her as he shook. 

“Over?’ he said a third time. “No, no, no, no, NO! It’s not over. It never is. The only thing that’s over,” he said, half-laughing, “is you!”

He raised his hands, as though he were the conductor of a morbid concert. The ground erupted in a shower of dust as hundreds of wights clawed their way to the surface. 

Teiran already had her weapons out by the time the first one clawed at her, and she jumped back, beheading it with a single strike. 

“Teiran!” Armadyl squawked. “Focus on Sliske! We’ll focus on the undead!” 

She looked to where the gods were. Their vigour seemed to have returned to them, and she could see that they were taking on the waves of enemies. Saradomin was smiting them in swathes, with Zilyana and Padomenes taking them by his side. Zamorak and Moia were flinging spells left and right, while the Kinshra was butchering his way through. Armadyl and his entourage fought from above, and Zaros and Seren were attacking with light and void. 

Teiran slashed her way through the crowd, honing in on the purple robe and collar that peeked above the sea of heads. 

“Sliske!” She shouted. “You aren’t getting away this time! I swear it! You have nowhere to hide, you slimy little snot-wad!”

She kicked a wight away and found herself facing him, still grinning that mad, savage smile and steepling his fingers together. 

“So you’ve gotten the Breakfast Club to fight on your behalf?” he cackled. “How grand! And how silly of me to think that a bunch of cannon fodder like this would be any sort of challenge for you? Oh, no. If it’s a real battle you want….”

He snapped his fingers. The strange, sunglasses-wearing man from before appeared before him.

“Gregorovic!” Sliske sang. “Dinner time!”

The man called Gregorovic grinned, and bowed low. There was a sound of ripping as a pair of curved blades erupted from the man’s back, tearing along the coat from the inside like a grotesque pair of wings. A…  _ thing _ emerged from the body like it was a winter’s coat, clawing its way outward with the sound of rending flesh. 

Teiran held back bile as a tall, doll-like creature shook away the last of its skin-suit, the blades on its hands slowly spinning as it stepped forward. Its head twitched, as though searching for something, and a long tongue escaped from its mannequin-like mask, tasting the air. 

The head turned, its blank eyes focusing directly on her as the body twisted with the sound of clockwork agony. And then it launched itself at her. 

Teiran leapt back, narrowly avoiding the blades that swung forth towards her face; even then, she felt a sting on her cheek as one of them only just barely grazed her, cutting off a chunk of her hair in the process. 

She rolled out of the way, only to dodge again as Gregorovic swiped towards her. He paused, taking a moment to clean the blade he'd nicked her with using his tongue. 

“So fresh,” he said, his voice hissing and robotic and growling all at once. “Mmm.. the hunger… I will… have more…!”

He launched himself at her again; when she dodged, however, he feinted, bringing his blades around to meet her side. 

It was only by the strength of her armour that she survived, and as metal met metal, sparks flew. Even then, as she managed to twist away and dance back, she noticed the sizable slash where he’d struck. 

_ Think, Teiran, think! _ She was a fairly healthy distance from him now, but she didn’t know what the monster’s speed truly was, and she had little doubt that he could quickly close the distance if he wanted to.  _ You’re in defense mode. You can’t keep dodging him.  _

She had little time to consider the next step before he was upon her again, blades whirling faster than any pyramid trap she’d ever encountered. She ducked and wove, at one point managing to land a strike on his leg with her sword; however, it merely bounced off with a clatter. 

“Food?” Gregorovic said, his slithering tongue reaching towards her. “Why are you fighting? You delay the inevitable.”

She rolled back, switching her whip for a staff and releasing a smoke spell at him; however, it merely rolled over him, to little effect. 

“Keep playing, food!” he hissed. “It will make your flesh all the sweeter when I swallow it!”

Teiran suppressed the look of disgust that threatened to creep up on her face, and instead focused her attention on the mannequin. The damn thing seemed to be made of all armour, it seemed; nothing but clinking metal, with no place for purchase with a blade or bolt. 

_ He’s like an animated suit _ , she thought, dodging another swipe.  _ If I had a granite maul, I might be able to do something… but all I have are the whip and the sword… _

Gregorovic swiped again, and dodged an attack from Teiran’s whip. He moved like a work of art, his joints clickIng and clattering into place as he spun out of the way. He reminded her of a far more graceful clockwork soldier, moving with efficiency and relentless drive…

_ Wait, _ she thought, as she caught her breath away from him again.  _ Clockwork. He  _ is _ a clockwork, practically. Doesn’t ache. Doesn’t get tired.  _

_ And with bits that can seize… _

She pulled out a handful of blood runes and a steam battlestaff, watching Gregorovic as he moved, preparing for his next attack. She took aim, and fired — three times in quick succession. 

The spells hit with the sound of a gentle splat, which gave Gregorovic pause. 

“Ice burst?” he cackled. “You use the magic of my master’s people on me? You haven’t even struck me properly, morsel. Is this how you play with your friends?”

“No.” She fired the final spell, which landed, with perfect accuracy, on the mannequin’s elbow. “This is how I play with my enemies.”

Gregorovic attempted to take a step forward. The ice around his joints, however, thoroughly prevented him from doing so. 

“What?” He sputtered. He attempted to break free of the accumulated frost, shaking in his desperation, but the spell has sunk deep into the mechanisms of his limbs. 

Gregorovic let out a howl, and he attempted to lunge forward once more; instead, he crashed to the ground instead with metallic cacophony. 

_ Thank you, Azzanadra, _ she thought, as she stepped forward. The clockwork man struggled on the ground below her, and she saw that his back was a nightmare of cogs and gears and springs, all turning at breakneck. 

“I wonder,” she said, “what would happen if I put a spanner in the works?”

Gregorovic shrieked, inhuman and grating. Teiran raised her longsword, and brought it down. 

The mannequin seized, twitching like a dying insect as the blade drove through the clockworks, before finally falling limp.

She looked up. Most of the wights had fallen, by now, and the gods seemed to be wrapping up. As she pulled her blade free from the limp body of Gregorovic, Sliske materialized before her, his face a mask of fury. 

“That. Was. My. Favourite. Toy. You. Little.  _ Brat _ !” he howled, stomping his foot on the dusty ground. “I perfected him for thousands of years, and this is what you do to me? Toss him aside like a rude child does a doll?”

“Yes.” 

Sliske’s scowl deepened. “Fine then! Have it your way, as a certain monarch would say. Nomad!”

He waved his hands, and a familiar, bald-headed mage appeared in front of him. His eyes glowed with undead malevolence, his coat and scarf tattered and coated in grave-dirt, and his pale skin now impossibly paler with a pallor from beyond the grave. His staff glowed in his hand, and he looked to Teiran with an expression of fury. 

“See what I did there?” Sliske said, crossing his arms. “You’ve fought Nomad before sure, but I’ve done a few little extra things to him. I’ve souped him up with shadow magic, you see, and I…”

He paused, and took in the scene before him. “Aaaaand you’ve killed him. Rather quickly, it seems. Couldn’t you have let me monologue?”

“No.” She wiped her sword clean on the back of Nomad’s corpse before kicking it to the side. “Do you have anything else?”

“Yes, in fact.” He snapped his fingers, and six figures appeared before him in a wall of armour and shadow. 

“You know what’s the funny thing?” Sliske said, as the Barrows Brothers regarded her. “You know that little weasel, Akrisae? I left him behind! I would have  _ loved _ to see him eat your prayers and smash your pretty little face in with that club of his. But you know what? He spends every minute, every moment, every speck of his energy  _ fighting me! _ Isn’t that hilarious? To think he could ever resist  _ me? _ Now he has to sit out on all the fun. I’m sure he’ll learn, in time.”

Sliske clapped his hands. “Alright, boys! Do your worst!”

The Barrows Brothers, however, didn’t move. 

Sliske blinked. “Go on! Have fun!” He waved them in the direction of Teiran. “Go and flatten her! You’ve done it before. It shouldn't be that hard. Shoo!”

Slowly, slowly, Guthan turned around, starting directly at the mahjarrat.

“We,” he said, in a voice full of creak and dust, “have been fighting too. And now we feel our freedom close.”

“Attack her! Smash her! Beat the pulp out of her!” Sliske shrieked. “I command you! WE MADE A PACT!”

“That pact is ending,” Verac said, turning around as well. “Our time for rest draws near.” 

Slowly, each of the brothers turned their backs to her, facing Sliske with their weapons raised. Sliske, quaking with anger, took account of the six wights before him. 

“Fine then,” he said. “Fine! I don’t need you anyway.”

He snapped his fingers, and the six disappeared. There was nothing between her and Sliske now; though the sounds of wights being slaughtered filled the chamber with its own cacophony, for all the world, it could have been dead silent. 

“I guess,” Sliske said, rolling up his robe sleeves, “if you want something done, you have to do it yourself.”


	71. Awoken

The first strike Sliske aimed at Teiran she managed to dodge; however, the second one struck her hard around the jaw, sending her brain swimming. 

The mahjarrat stepped back, grinning in his smug way once again. He pulled his hands up, and a pit full of shadows erupted beneath her, snatching at her legs as she managed to leap away. 

“You can run!” Sliske crowed. “But you can’t hide! The end comes for you now, ‘World Guardian.’ And I’ll do you a favour and make it so that Death can’t bring you back!”

Teiran didn’t reply, instead charging at him with a high attack. Sliske gracefully ducked away, only to be met in the stomach with a punch. 

Hitting him was like hitting rock, and the impact alone nearly threw Teiran off balance, so she merely pushed off and back, managing to land a few feet away from him.

Sliske brushed off his robes with a look of annoyance. “You really think a little poke like _that_ ,” he said disgustedly, “will do anything to me?”

He flung a dark wave of magic towards her, and it enveloped her before she could dodge. Teiran choked, feeling the air rush from her lungs as she was all but blinded and deafened; though it cleared a moment later, her entire body shook with weakness.

Shadows erupted at her feet, and she felt the tendrils snatch at her legs, holding her in place. Despite her dizziness, she managed to kick them away — 

Only to be hit by another wave of shadow. This one seemed to last longer, and when it ended she could barely stand. The room was spinning, and she felt coldness snatching at her limbs, weighing them down with a heaviness on par with lead. 

Drunkenly, swaying, she rallied, forcing her weight into another charge toward him. She felt her blade meet flesh, fleetingly, before she was met with a hard punch to her side that knocked the air out of her lungs. She flew to the side, landing on the ground and tumbling to a stop, not knowing up from down. 

She opened her eyes, and the world spun even faster and more nauseatingly than before. Sliske was standing in front of her, looking at the gash in his arm with passive disinterest. 

“A hit,” he said boredly. “A very palpable hit.” He waved his hand over it, seeping shadow magic into the wound, and it healed over like nothing had happened to it at all.

Teiran struggled to rise, but her body wouldn’t respond. Everything felt heavy and cold; gravity was weightier, and even the air felt like thick syrup that she was trying to force into her lungs. 

“You know,” Sliske said, stepping towards her, “you were fun while you lasted. You were rather amusing to watch, between the moping and the anger and all that nonsense. You didn’t give a shit about fate or gods or honour. You were like a bull in a china shop, and, Mother Mah, the sound of everything you broke was _beautiful._ I could listen to it all day.”

He lifted his hands, and the shadows pulled her up, levelling her face with his. His eyes glimmered with fascinated anticipation, like that of a child; one that had discovered a magnifying glass and a pile of ants. He grinned.

“But that time is over,” Sliske continued, summoning the Staff of Armadyl in his hand. “You’ve become far more of a nuisance than I accounted for. Kudos to you! But now, I think, you’d be best off if I keep you in a jar from here on out.”

He aimed the staff at her chest, and it began to glow. 

Teiran had been here before. She’d seen that look, she’d seen that glow, she’d smelled ash and tasted tears and blood and pain; it was like a song, playing over and over, that looped in on itself and never changed or ended. Always the stone. Always the staff. Always someone after power. 

_When would it be over?_ she thought. When she died? Would this be it, then? Maybe she should be happy. Maybe she’d finally be at peace. Gielinor could burn around her, and she wouldn’t have to give a damn...

_No._

Something in her… awoke. 

It didn’t start as a little spark; it came all at once, filling her like a flood, like an all-consuming flame that ate her from her head to her toes. She sensed the shadows uncurl from her like vines set alight, and she dropped to the floor.

It was like nothing she felt ever before. The Stone of Jas had made her drunk with power; but this left her feeling _alive._ She was aware of everything around her; the sudden, hurried breaths of Sliske in front of her; every shout of the wights and the gods and their companions; she heard the snarl of Icthlarin as he raced through the distant hallways towards her, as Death trailed after him. 

She could hear the sand under her feet vibrate with every step that hit the ground. She could hear _things_ burrowing in and around the caves — snakes and worms and scarabs and Guthix-knew-what else. She could hear the sun roar, far above, far away, and soft high songs of what she could only suspect were the stars.

Teiran rose. The air invigorated her; her armour felt like nothing. She was cloaked in green fire, which blinded her to everything. Instead, her body _sensed_ , and she knew where everything lay with painful exactness.

Power burned and tore through her like thorns, wounding and healing her with every passing moment. However, the fire within blazed too hot for her to care.

She raised her sword to the mahjarrat in front of her. Though he had cloaked himself in shadow, she saw that he took a step back in surprise. 

“Sliske,” she said, in a voice that was not entirely her own. It whispered like leaves in the wind, with a hissing sigh made of a hundred small things. “Your crimes against Gielinor cannot stand. By the grace and duty of Guthix, and for the good of this world, your time must end.”

Sliske tried to step back, but instead stumbled on the floor. Teiran reached down and picked him up by a fistful of robe, lifting the mahjarrat with ease. For the first time, she saw that his face was filled with terror, his eyes wide and his mouth open in a voiceless shriek. 

Power surged down her arm, and it enveloped him, crackling through his body like lightning. Sliske let out a howl, and let the Staff of Armadyl fall from his hand with a clatter.

She released the mahjarrat, letting his limp body fall to the ground, and picked up the staff. It hummed with unfamiliar energy, and she felt it spark to life under her touch. In one fluid motion, she swung it towards Sliske’s chest. 

Sliske looked at the staff, and then to her, grinning.

“You would kill me now?” he said. “Cut yourself off from the possibilities forever? I can show you power greater than you know. I can show you byways that even Death cannot tread. Kill me, and you’ll suffer forever. I promise it.”

Teiran, however, shook her head. 

“There will be no more deals, ” she said. “No more bargaining. I can see behind your mask, and your death is due.”

Something in Sliske’s expression shifted. The mad glint in his eye disappeared, replaced with something like cold peace. He nodded, stiffly. 

“Fine then,” he said. “Go ahead and do your worst.”

Teiran stabbed the staff into his chest, feeling its end crack through stony flesh and crack through bone. Sliske howled again, louder than ever before; it was too loud, too piercing, too _inhuman,_ and she felt her resolve waver.

Sliske saw this, and took his chance. With a roar, he grabbed the staff and pushed back. She felt something bite into her chest, leaving a trail of cold with it. Sliske grinned. Though the power dulled the pain, the coldness felt alien, and she wrenched it free with a wild cry. 

_End this,_ she thought. _Don’t let him get away. End this now._

She drove the weapon further into him, and the grin froze on his face. With a snarl, she twisted it, causing scarlet blood to leak from his lips. He attempted to say something, but failed, choking on his own fluids. 

And with that, Sliske let out a last, disgusting sputter, and fell limp, slumping with a mortal thud onto the floor. 

Teiran stood there for a moment, watching the body for any signs of movement. Then, for good measure, she wrenched the staff free from his chest and impaled it in Sliske’s neck, watching the blood pool on the dusty ground with some satisfaction.

She released a sigh. The power was draining from her as quickly as it came, leaving her ears filled with blessed silence, and filling her body with merciful stillness. It seemed to have healed the wound in her chest and otherwise, though the tendril of coldness still remained. 

“It’s over,” she said, sagging with relief. “It’s over…”

She heard footsteps behind her, and turned. Armadyl approached her, his feathers a little ruffled, but looking none worse than the wear. The other gods were behind him, keeping their distance, she noted; and the floor was covered in the bodies of slain wights. 

_Will they get rest now_ ? she thought, absentmindedly. _I would hope so…_

“Is he…” Armadyl said, his eyes flitting over to the corpse. “Truly…?”

“As much as we can hope so,” Teiran said. “It might not be a bad idea to burn the body. And scatter the ashes in the ocean. Three different oceans, in fact. You can never be too safe.”

Armadyl cracked a smile. “Yes. I —”

His feathers bristled, suddenly, and he stiffened. “Teiran,” he said, his voice filled with alarm. “Something’s coming!”

Teiran tensed as well, and reached for her whip and sword again. The cavern, without warning, began to shake and rumble, sending dust and sand cascading down the ceiling in sheets. 

“What’s happening?!” she shouted. “Is the place falling apart?”

Something, suddenly, made the hairs on Teiran’s arms prickle; her hair frizzed with static, and her right palm itched. 

A voice, singular, all-consuming, powerful, filled the entire cavern. 

**Come**

**To**

**Me**

Teiran let out a cry as the world shifted. For the first time since meeting Guthix, she was unwillingly wretched away in a teleport, pulling her off to places unknown.

* * *

Teiran opened her eyes. 

Everything around her was dark, and from what she could tell she was alone on the small, sand-covered platform she woke up on. The only details in her environment were a strange, looping set of stone carvings that branched around the little island, inlaid with odd circles and strange colours.

She sat up, absentmindedly scratching her palm. “Where am I…?

**You**

**Are**

**Here**

The voice came from the front of her, spoken by a protrusion in the sand that looked like an insectoid creature. She couldn’t get a good look at it, for with each word it would rise from the ground, speak, and then fall again, only to be replaced by another. 

She shook her head. “I’m going to assume that you’re sticking to the non-specifics. Let’s try a different question,” she said. “Who the hell are you?”

**Jas**

A shiver went up her spine. Around her, the stone carvings began to move, shifting and awaying like something in the ocean. She noticed that they all curved back to a central point, which was just behind her. 

Slowly, she turned around. 

The face that beheld her… was expressionless. No, perhaps a little bored-looking. Its mouth was made of stone, and its eight eyes mere glowing slits in its surface. By all means, it should be unable to express emotion. 

Early on in Teiran’s adventuring career, a wizard had shown her a funny little contraption — a metal tube with several mirrors and lenses in it that apparently made very small things very big. He showed her the scratches on a gold coin and the tiny fragments of shells to be found in a pinch of sand, before displaying the various creatures that could be found swimming in a droplet of pondwater.

After she’d thrown up and vowed never to drink anything unboiled or nonalcoholic ever again, Teiran had looked at it once more, watching the strange worms and little blobs swim by — all unaware of her presence, fascination, or disgust. 

She realized, now, if those microbes had eyes and could see back up through the lens, what expression they would have beheld. 

A sand-creature rose before her, having followed her gaze. 

**Explain**

Teiran licked her lips, her mouth having suddenly become dry. Part of her wanted to insult the thing before her, but another part of her prudently informed her that this would not be a sensible course of action. 

“Explain what?” she said.

**My agent**

**Explain**

**Its end**

“Agent…” she echoed. The pieces came together in her head, and she slowly nodded. 

“He endangered the world,” she said. “He would have destroyed everything on it through the gods, inciting another war.”

**War**

**What**

**Is**

**That**

“A big thing where lots of people get together and fight and kill one another.”

**Why**

Teiran shrugged. “Differences. Wanting each other's stuff. Beautiful women. Same as in nature, I suppose.”

**You**

**Destroy**

**Yourselves**

“Yes,” she said, slowly. “Though most people don’t like to do it.”

**You**

**Have**

**Killed**

**Hundreds**

“Yes.”

**Why**

“To become stronger. Because they threatened me. Because they threatened others.”

Jas remained silent, for a moment. Her gigantic face betrayed no expression, but Teiran got the feeling she was thinking.

**Mortal**

**Life**

**It**

**Is**

**Unexpected**

The god paused. 

**It**

**Is**

**Dangerous**

“Yes.”

**You**

**Are**

**A**

**Question**

**I**

**Will**

**Ask**

**My**

**Sisters**

**They**

**Will**

**Waken**

Teiran froze. “You’ll destroy Gielinor,” she said. 

**Yes**

“Erm. Can you not?”

Jas paused again, before replying. 

**Convince**

**Them**

**Show**

**Them**

**Life**

**Has**

**Worth**

**We**

**Shall**

**Judge**

**This**

Jas paused, once more. 

**Now**

**Leave**

“Wait!” Teiran shouted, her voice acting before her brain could. “I have questions.”

**One**

“One question? Not counting this one?”

**Yes**

Teiran stared up the elder god, which still looked down on her with divine disinterest. She, of course, had a thousand questions, and they all jostled for attention, demanding to be asked.

She settled on one.

“Mah,” she said. “She’s dead.”

**We**

**Are**

**Aware**

“Do you miss her?”

**What**

**Is**

**Miss**

“Longing. Pain. Sadness, I guess. Don’t you mourn her?”

**I**

**Do**

**Not**

**Know**

**This**

“She’s your sister. And the stone… it’s your own child. Don’t you mourn that?”

**No**

Jas paused.

**It**

**Was**

**A**

**Necessary**

**Sacrifice**

Teiran looked up at the thing above her. It was large enough to be a mountain; certainly big enough to eat one, at least. It could probably crush her like an insect without a second thought.

She grinned, giddily, goofily. 

“Gods,” she said. “Here you are, and I think you might be this big, wise thing that created the universe… and you’re so _stupid._ ”

**What**

**Explain**

Teiran let out a laugh. “You made the world and you’re all ready to eat it… and you don’t mourn anything. You don’t fear death. You don’t fear death for others. You don’t _understand._ The dumbest chicken in the world knows more than you. The smallest kalphites digging around in the sand know more than you. Every man, woman, child, demon, gnome, elf — hell, even the _mahjarrat_ know more than you.”

She paused. “How sad. I almost envy you…”

Jas said nothing for a long while, her limbs twitching and swirling around her in silence. And then she said:

**Irrational**

**Irrelevant**

**Leave**

Teiran felt the world shift around her again, and the sound of sand and the limbs faded away; the eyes looked on at her, but she no longer felt afraid. 

* * *

Teiran opened her eyes. 

The ceiling… was unseeable, obscured by a heavy fog far above. She sat up, and found herself back in the chamber from before. The gods surrounded her, their expressions in varying degrees of shock — or, in Zaros’ case, smouldering anger.

Death and Icthlarin were there, as well. Icthlarin seemed to have been restored to his former state, albeit a little sheepish. There was a ladder, as well, reaching up to the surface, illuminated by a single, solid sunbeam. 

“Teiran,” Death said. “You’re alive.”

“Yep.” She got up. “Nobody died, did they?”

“Not among us, no.” 

“Oh, thank gods.” She looked around. “Not that you lot had anything to do with it.”

She looked among the assembled crew. Both Saradomin and Zamorak seemed to be regarding her with a wary respect. Armadyl was perched on one of the walls, his wings sagging with relief. Seren hovered nearby, while Zaros glowered. Azzanadra was watching her levelly; as his expression met hers, they seemed to reach an unspoken agreement.

Icthlarin stepped forward. “Teiran,” he said. “What happened there?”

She took a breath. 

“Let’s see,” she said. “The Stone of Jas was destroyed. Sliske is dead. Gielinor, and by extension the rest of the universe as we know it, is in impending existential peril beyond mortal reckoning. Would it be too much to hope that we all learned the power of friendship and the value of cooperation from this little escapade?” 

She looked around at the assorted, blankly-starting divine faces. “No? Then I suppose we all learned nothing today.” She turned. “I’m leaving now.”

She began to climb up the ladder.

“Wait!” Armadyl said. “Where are you going?”

“Nardah.” She didn’t even look down. “I need a bloody choc-ice.”

* * *

Zamorak turned to Moia. “What is this… ‘choc-ice’ she speaks of?”

None of the other gods dared to speak. Moia whispered something to him.

Zamorak nodded, realization dawning in his infernal eyes. 

“Interesting... “ he mused. He paused.

“Could you nip out and fetch me one, too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahisietel: *Walks outside house in Nardah*
> 
> *Sees the major gods of Gielinor and their emissaries sitting at the fountain with choc-ice*
> 
> *Turns around and walks back inside*


	72. Fanfare

By Marianne’s account, Teiran slept for a straight week after returning home, waking up only for food and water. When she finally, properly awoke, she remembered the first thing she did was shuffle downstairs, her legs feeling like jelly, and poke her head out the portal. 

It was noon. And, she realized, it was springtime. 

Life moved on. Slowly, quickly. She still couldn’t stop herself from looking over her shoulder every six seconds, tensing whenever she felt an odd chill in the air or movement out of the corner of her eye, though she slowly learned to relax. Nightmares, now and again, would still creep on her in the night — now populated not only by shadows and laughter, but planet-sized creatures that sighed like sand falling — but these she could handle. 

She saw little of the gods in that time, and she rather preferred it that way. Now and again she’d catch the sight of something in the sky — larger than a bird, but too feathery to be a dragonkin — pass by. When she did, she would wave, even if she was sure they couldn’t see her. 

She tried not to think about the Elder Gods. Even if it was for a little while. 

A week after she woke up, she went out woodcutting for the first time in forever. 

It was nice. 

* * *

Two weeks after everything that had happened in the Heart of Gielinor, she visited the Barrows mounds in Morytania. When she arrived, she immediately noticed two things. First were the claw-shaped patches of lawn where someone had clearly replaced the turf.

The second was Akrisae, standing on the mound where Verac resided, seemingly waiting for her. 

For the first time since the plateau, he had his hood down. When she saw this, Teiran relinquished the grip on her weapon. 

They were sitting, now, next to each other on the grave hill, the marsh noises and shrieks of Morytania washing over them both. The priest was looking at his hand, clenching and unclenching it into a fist like it was the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“It’s good, you know,” Akrisae said with a sigh. “Being free. Being able to control myself. It’s been so long.”

“I’m sorry it couldn’t be sooner,” Teiran said. “All that time…”

“It’s no matter,” he said. “It’s allowed me time to get to know the other brothers. And they’ve been here for centuries.”

Teiran didn’t reply. Akrisae closed his eyes, which still glowed softly in the gloom, though not as sickly as they had before Sliske’s death. 

“What are you going to do now?” Teiran asked. 

He smiled, a little sadly. “Stay here, I think. Though we are free of Sliske’s control, I fear that his necromancy may only work in the confines of this place.”

“Akrisae,” she said. “If you want to rest… die for real, I mean… I can make it happen.”

He nodded. “Yes, I…” He trailed off. 

“One day. But not today. I’m needed here, I think. The others… they’re good company. And they won’t be parted from one another. Not after so long. And even beyond here… the town next to ours, Mort'ton, always needs an extra set of hands. Burgh de Rott hasn’t had a preacher in decades. It’s been awhile since I’ve given a sermon, but I'm sure with a little practice I’ll…”

He looked over to her, trailing off. “Are you crying?”

“No!” She turned away, hastily wiping her face. “It’s the bloody swamp damp. Nothing more.”

“I’m only asking.”

She sighed, and turned back to him, hoping her eyes weren’t too red. “Akrisae… I’m sorry.”

“Please. I told you, I —”

“No. For being a prick.” She sniffed. “And don’t tell me I wasn’t. I was. And you didn’t deserve that.”

He looked at her with shock, at first, but then a slow smile crept up on his face. “To be fair, I was rather a prick as well.”

He paused. “But… I do forgive you. Truly. We weren’t our best selves then… but I can be better now.” 

He looked down at his hands. “I suppose, in a way, I’ve been given a second chance…”

“I wish there was something I could do for you,” Teiran said. “Cure you. Cure the Barrows. Fix everything that went wrong.”

Akrisae reached out to touch her arm, but then thought better of it. “It’s ok,” he said. “Truly. I’m happy here, in my own way.”

“But isn’t there anything you’d want?”

“One thing, I suppose.” He laid back on the marshgrass, looking up to the sky once more. “I miss the sun.” He smiled, softly. “It sounds silly, I know, but when I was a boy, my father used to tell me that it was Saradomin’s way of reaching us. It let us know that our prayers were answered, and that we could have hope again…”

Teiran bolted upright, her mind racing. “Wait here.”

She dug around in her pack and pulled out a fistful of runes. Before Akrisae could say anything else, she teleported away, leaving him to the gloom, the sound of the swamp-crickets, and his own puzzled expression.

* * *

“It cannot be done.”

Teiran crossed her arms, scowling at the god before her. “Aren’t you the lord of light?” she said. “Aren’t you incredibly powerful? If you can shoot a laser-beam at Zamorak for a week straight, I think showing up in Morytania wouldn’t be too much of an issue.”

“The issue,” Saradomin said measuredly, “is not in ability. It is in diplomacy, which I would think you’d have some experience in. If I were to show my face in Drakan’s kingdom, it would start a war the likes of which we haven’t seen since the Morytania campaigns. Are you unaware of the tensions left over from over a decade ago? If it weren’t for Sir Theodore —”

“Ok, ok, fine. I get it,” Teiran huffed. “But isn’t there anything you can do?” She paused, wondering how much desperation she should allow to creep into her voice, before deciding to toss her pride out the window. 

“Please, Saradomin,” she said. “He’s one of your own. Even after everything he’s been through, he’s had faith in you. Faith that I can’t agree with, but that I can’t deny him. If you’re not doing this for me — and I’d understand why you wouldn’t, for all the bullshit I’ve thrown at you — then do it for him.”

She looked to him, pleadingly, noting the dark bruise under his right eye that she now regretted leaving. 

Saradomin stared at her for a moment, before releasing a sigh. His expression softened, and he slowly nodded. 

“Very well, then. Mortal. But this is for him, and for his faith. Understand?”

She nodded.

“I cannot make it long,” he said, slowly rising from his chair. “Only a minute or two, lest it may attract attention.”

“Trust me,” she said. “That’ll be more than enough.”

* * *

Akrisae was still sitting on the mound when Teiran returned. As she teleported in, he sat up, shooting her a look of confusion. 

“What was that all about?” he said. “I—”

“Look.” She pointed up. 

Akrisae did so. As he did, the clouds parted. 

Light poured through the narrow gap, shining down on the grave mounds. The dull, green-grey grass lit up, the shadows and mists that pervaded the area chased away by the warmth. The shades of Mort'ton shrieked and hid, while the living villagers looked up in awe. She heard the vyrewatch near Darkmeyer flee with a screech, their cries replaced with shouts of surprise and glee from Burgh de Rott.

And, for the first time in centuries, Morytania felt the sun. 

And, next to her, his eyes half-closed against the nearly blinding light, Akrisae reached upward, his hands almost seeming to grasp the beams that sliced through the clouds overhead. 

“My lord,” he murmured, tears running down his cheeks. “My lord... Saradomin… thank you…”

* * *

Two months after the Stone of Jas was destroyed, Teiran returned to her house in Ardougne, kicked her boots off by the door, and collapsed on the couch with a sigh. 

Marianne wandered in, drying a tea mug. “Back so soon, miss? I thought you had a date.”

“I did,” Teiran groaned into the pillows. 

“Well? How did it go?”

She looked up. “How do you think it went?”

“Oh dear.” Marianne sat next to her, placing the mug down. “Another assassin?”

“Gods, I wish.” Teiran sighed and sat up. “No, another one of those damn try-hards. Between the flattery and them talking about themselves, I didn’t have a moment to think…” She gave a wan smile. “You want to know what this bloke said he did?”

“What, miss?”

“He said he was the one who slayed Delrith. Him! To my face! I asked him if he still had Silverlight, and he said he’d left it in his bank.”

“So what did you do, miss?”

“Easy. I took him to see K'ril Tsutsaroth. Said I had a bit of trouble killing him and asked if he’d help me out. Damn idiot widdled his pants before I teleported us back to Varrock, and then he was up the street like a chased rabbit. Damn pretender…”

“I suppose they all can’t be winners, miss.” 

“Mmmm.” She lay back and stared up at the ceiling. “Still better than the ones who grovel all the time. ‘Oh yes, World Guardian. You’re absolutely right, World Guardian. You’ll save us all, World Guardian…’  _ Blech _ .”

She sighed again. “Maybe I shouldn’t even try, Marianne. Just be alone forever…”

“Adopt a houseful of cats, miss?”

“Cats?” she grinned. “Oh, you know me better than that. Never in a million years. Dragons, maybe.”

“I’m sure there’s someone out there, miss,” Marianne said. “Somewhere. Somehow.”

“Mmm.” She sat up. “I don’t suppose anything exciting’s happened to you, has it?”

“Nothing but the usual market fistfights, miss. The sandwich lady’s been getting rather mean, I think she might have set a record today for the number of pickpocket knockouts.”

The maid seemed to remember something, and fished around in her apron pocket, pulling out an envelope. “Oh, and this, miss. Postie Pete nipped by just a bit ago.”

Teiran took it from her and tore it open, skimming the contents inside. “Ah, hell.”

“What, miss?”   


“I guess the vacation’s up. This is a note from Seren.”

“What about, miss?” 

Teiran scanned the willowy writing. Somehow, the goddess had managed to find ink that was not only blue, but  _ glittery. _ “Something about a council of whatever…”

“I’m sure it won’t be a big deal, miss. It’s just a council. What’s the worst that could happen?”

* * *

Teiran sat at the table among the assorted leaders, representatives, and personalities of Runescape, and strongly resisted the urge to bang her head against the table.

“Ok,” she said, levelly as she could. “Let’s run through this again.”

She turned to Zarador. “We use the Feldip Hills for a planting source. It’s nice and damp, gets plenty of sun, and is generally viewable and accessible from a given vantage, i.e. outer space.” 

She turned to Brundt. “The Fremennik have agreed to be the planting force, and no doubt they’d like a change from the rocky seaside. The Oneiromancer said she can lend a hand in the magic department, which’ll be useful what with  _ Plant Cure _ and such.”

She turned to King Roald. “The kingdom of Misthalin has  _ graciously _ offered its resources for seeds, which is rather kind, considering that you have the entirety of the plants in the royal garden because I went halfway across Gielinor bloody well gathering them for you. Is this correct?”

The king nodded, carefully. She suspected that the current look in her eyes prevented him from snapping back.

She released a breath. “Ok. Wonderful. We’ve reached a consensus! Feldip for the planting, Freminnk for the farmers, Misthalin for the plants. Do we have any objections?”

She looked at the various dignitaries, who remained silent.  _ Please, please, by the grace of Guthix,, this might actually work… _

She heard a quiet cough from next to her, and felt her blood pressure spike.

“I'm sorry.” Roald said, crossing his arms. “But I cannot give our seeds to those...  _ ogres _ .” He eyed Zarador with suspicion, and the ourg gave a dismissive snort in return. “This garden represents a powerful resource. It would give the ogres the strength to expand their influence. They are dangerous creatures with no respect for human life. I cannot justify surrendering resources to them.”

“Hmph,” Zarador said. “Well, if you wish to doom Gielinor with your prejudices, then, by all means, go ahead. Though I believe the elder gods shall find all races equal in their choice to destroy us.”

The table erupted in argument once more. As shouts rose around her, Teiran stood up and marched for the stairs, using all of her might to not scream aloud. 

She headed upwards, greeted by the constant drizzle of Burthorpe. The rooftop was mercifully empty, and she leaned against a damp wall and pulled her hat low over her head.

_ Who the fuck, _ she thought, trying to block out the noise of disagreement from below,  _ thought this would be a good idea? A garden? Really? Seren must be out of her mind! The elder gods don’t don’t even conceptualize death, for Guthix’s sake! How the hell are a few pretty flowers going to appease them? _

She sighed, squeezing her eyes shut. She probably should be thankful. Tedious as this was, she would take diplomatic arguments over Sliske  _ any _ day. 

Mostly. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wind rushing overhead, louder than what was customary for the gusts that howled through the castle ramparts. 

She opened her eyes just as a dragonkin landed in front of her. 

Teiran froze; her hand crept towards her whip, before thinking better of it. The dragonkin stood before her, raindrops turning to steam as they landed on his leathery skin; however, she saw no fire in his nostrils. 

“Kerapac,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Seren invited me to this… council, as well,” he said. He mouthed  _ council _ like a dirty word, and she, at this point, was inclined to agree with him.

“Good bloody luck making any sense of it, then,” Teiran said. “They’re arguing over hundred-year old disagreements and farming climates down there.”

“Foolish.” Kerapac snarled, pulling back his lips to reveal pearly-white teeth. “Seren is blinded by familial bonds. The elder gods will not be swayed by mere tokens of appreciation.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “But, honestly, it’s the best chance we’ve got.”

“No. I offer… an alternative.”

The rain began to pick up, falling with new ferocity on the both of them. Teiran, however, didn’t notice. 

“Fine then,” Teiran said. “What’s your plan?”

“Do you know where the Elder Halls are?” 

“No.”

“I know how to find them.”

“And then?”

“If we locate them, then we may prevent the gods from awakening,” Kerapac said. “In my millions of years, I have experimented with the bond Jas exerted upon us through the stone. I believe, with some adjusting, that the same bond may be exerted upon the gods and their young. They will still sleep, yes, under the ground. But they shall never waken.”

Teiran considered this carefully. The rain began to pool in her hat’s brim, slowly streaming down the side and falling to the ground with a steady spatter. 

“Why should I trust you?” she asked, carefully. 

“Why should you not?” He placed a claw on the wall overlooking the castle’s front. Through the rising mists, Teiran could see a miserable group of soldiers patrolling squelchily through the downpour. Spria, far down below, was huddled under a tree, her oiled cloak protecting her from the deluge. 

“I have kept my promises so far,” Kerapac continued. “I told you I would destroy the stone, and I did. I despise Jas and her kind for what they have done to my people. Though the shackle of the stone is now unbound from us, we do not forget the pain easily.”

He turned to her. “And what choice do you have?”

Teiran didn’t answer. In the room below, she heard someone loudly suggest that they consult Reldo for information regarding fertilization methods. 

She let out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll go with your plan.”

Kerapac grinned, though it looked more like a snarl than anything else. “Very well. Meet me west of Piscatoris in an hour. There is something there that I think you would like to see.”


	73. Temporal Threads

Teiran had, admittedly, never travelled to this particular part of the map. For as much as she boasted about knowing every inch of Runescape, the little area west of Piscatoris was just too tucked away and too far from any convenient teleport spots for her to consider it worth her attention. On top of that, as she headed along the pathway, she could’ve sworn the place hadn’t existed up until now…

Her unease only increased as she continued. Though the Piscatoris region was categorically a little gloomy, the clouds here just seemed… wrong. They boiled overhead, shifting in unfelt wind but going no particular direction, and a thin fog obscured anything further than five feet in front of her. 

Kerapac was waiting for her at the end of the path, a sharp, dark shape cutting through the white mists. 

“This way,” he said, simply, and he left the road. Teiran followed, noting a small farmhouse they passed. Whoever lived in there seemed to be staying in, at least; she wasn’t sure how the local populace would feel about a dragonkin stalking about their property. 

Kerapac led her over a small stream, which he glided over and she waded through, and up a hill, thick with buckthorn and bramble. 

As she climbed, Teiran felt her skin begin to prickle. The hairs on her arms raised, and a metallic taste crept up her throat. The feeling only increased the higher she went, until they reached the crest.

“We have arrived,” Kerapac said. “And before us stands an artefact of untold power: The Needle.”

It  _ looked _ like a funnily-shaped rock. She could probably find something like it around Taverley — one of those strangely-carved menhirs that littered the countryside, left behind by druids who used it to worship nature spirits or tell time or what-have-you. The circular divet in the middle is likely what granted it the moniker of Needle, and it did look as such, if it were perhaps a needle for giants. Giant giants, perhaps. 

“Great,” Teiran said, looking the white stone up and down. “What does it do?”

“It is an elder artefact,” Kerapac said. “One bound to the creation of this world. It can unravel time itself, reweaving the threads and creating anima from it.”

“Wait,” she said. “This thing’s a time machine?”

“Imprecisely,” Kerapac said. “Its range is limited; it is generally bound to one area, or one person. It cannot change the past utterly, lest the tapestry of existence is unraveled.”

“Oh. Damn,” Teiran said, mentally batting down the leap in her chest. “How are we going to use it, then?”

“Within it are memories. Old echoes of the past it helped weave. If one were to delve within…”

“Then I could possibly figure out where the elder halls are. Gotcha.”

She looked at the stone up and down. “So do I have to, er, try and thread it or…?”

“Simply touch it. Do you have the Measure with you, by the way?”

“Yeah,” she said, retrieving the stick from her pack. “How come?”

“It may come in handy. Now, go ahead.”

Teiran stepped forward, certain pertinent thoughts in the back of her head reminding her about past experience touching certain wossnames. 

_ It’s fine, _ she thought.  _ It’s not shiny, it’s not the Stone of Jas, and it’s not being protected by an elemental made of fire. What’s the worst that could happen? _

Her palm touched smooth stone. She’d been expecting a shock, or a tingle at the very least; however, she felt nothing.

“Just what,” a petulant voice said behind her, “do you think you’re doing?”

Teiran turned around. A very tall, very blue, very angry looking woman was staring down at her, her hands on her hips, and her white hair framing a pair of furious-looking yellowish eyes. 

“Peace, Guardian,” Kerapac said, stepping forward. “We mean you no harm.”

“Who are you?” Teiran asked, bewildered. “Where did you come from?”

“The Needle,” the woman said, her voice betraying a touch of reverence. “My name is Gail, and I am bound to it as its protector and conduit. And you two are a  _ threat. _ What have you come here for? To use its power? To change the past? That will only end in tragedy, I will tell you. I’ve seen it before.”

Teiran put her hands up. “Look, we’re not here to mess about with time. We’re just —”

“Attempting to glimpse into the memories within,” Kerapac finished for her. “Nothing more. We do so in order to save Gielinor. Surely, with your link to the artefact, you’ve felt them stir.”

The woman’s expression softened. “I’ll admit, it has been acting strange lately…”

She scowled again. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m letting you much about with it willy-nilly!”

“Gail,” Teiran said. “Please. This might be our only chance to stop the elder gods.”

Gail looked directly at her now, and Teiran felt like she was being inspected. “Hmmm… you…”

She closed her eyes, as though listening to something, and then opened them again. 

“Fine,” she said. “You can go. But only because the Needle seems to like you. The dragonkin stays behind. And if I sense any funny business…”

“We understand, Guardian,” Kerapac said. He turned to Teiran, and nodded. 

Teiran decided not to inquire as to how a lump of rock would show any preference towards her, and instead turned to the Needle once more. She reached out, letting her hand meet smooth stone once more.  _ Now _ she felt the tingle, as wind rushed up about her; she tasted metal in her mouth again, and the ground fell away beneath her feet, and the artefact pulled her into itself. 

* * *

It was dark, even after Teiran opened her eyes. Despite the lack of light, she would recognize where she was almost instantly: 

Guthix’s cave. 

It was becoming clearer, now; the walls, carved with strange symbols and creatures she couldn’t recognize. The platform where she’d stood when her world was ripped apart a second time, where she’d watched the god die and slump over like something pathetic and human. 

Guthix himself was absent, thankfully; and she breathed a sigh of relief, surveying the chamber around her. After a moment, she took out the measure, giving the stick a dubious look as she scanned her surroundings. 

Something flickered in the corner of her eye. 

Teiran whipped around, hand on her whip ready to strike — 

There was nothing there.

She started at the same patch of floor for some time before letting herself relax, and took a step forward.

When her foot hit the floor the scene vanished, replaced by greenery and trees. Teiran nearly stumbled, muttering a curse as she realized that she’d been transported to Tirannwn.

Nothing moved in the woods; in fact, nothing made a sound, or even a smell. It was like a painting, though realer than any one she’d ever seen; as she reached down to touch the grass, she realized that the texture felt flat and oddly papery. 

She took another step forward. Forest was replaced with sky, grass with stone, and she was on a citadel, though no wind blew.

Another step. She was on Freneskae, the ground charred and broken under her feet; another step, and she on a mud plain, bones and bodies strewn about her; and another, leading her to a white tree on a mountain, surrounded by snow with no cold to it. 

Every step she took was like walking through time, images rifling past as though they were pages of a book. A small wooden house. A stone circle. A green valley, illuminated by a distant tower in the background. A sumptuous city, its walls painted in gold and purple and blue and lined with marble. A prison, half-filled with sand. 

A temple, surrounded by scorched earth, adjacent to a high ice wall,  _ (walk faster, Teiran, walk faster…) _ A fortress, coated in frost. A tiny island, holding nothing more than a door…

With each scene that passed her by, she looked for something,  _ anything _ that would indicate the presence of an elder hall. A sign. A flash. A sound. But the Measure remained cold and quiet in her hands, and she could find nothing of use. Now and again she thought she could see a flicker, but every time she turned, it would be gone.

When she found herself on Naragun, she was very near to calling the whole thing off; however, when she took a step forward, she found herself in the same place.

She took another step. Still Naragun, wrecked and desolated. 

When she took a third, she noticed the flicker again; and when she turned, it did not vanish.

The shadow standing in front of her had no face, though it did have a form; towering and lean, accentuated only by the ludicrously high collar around what could be assumed to be its neck. It reached out to her, its hands clasping some dark spell, readying itself to strike —

_ SMACK. _

Teiran hit the shadow with the Measure, grunting in satisfaction as she felt it land with a solid thwack. The shadow reeled, and she struck again.

“Fuck off!”  _ Thwack _ “Do you”  _ Thwack  _ “Really”  _ Thwack _ “Think”  _ Thwack  _ “I’d”  _ Thwack.  _ “Let”  _ Thwack  _ “You”  _ Thwack  _ “Get”  _ Thwack  _ “away?”

The shadow shuddered, and disappeared. Teiran sighed. “Good bloody nuisance…” she looked to the artefact in her hand. “Most helpful this damn thing’s been the entire time…”

She looked up, and only then did she catch the figure sitting on the stone bed, far off ahead, and watching the setting sun.

“Guthix?” she said. She hurriedly walked over to it; though his back was to her, there was no mistaking the god. 

“Guthix!” she yelled, and it turned around. “Is it really you?”

The figure let out a long, deep, sigh, further betraying the tiredness in its eyes. 

“A memory,” he said; even his voice sounded faded and muffled. “And you are…?” he concentrated, and then his look of sorrow grew even deeper. “Ah. Yes. The World Guardian.”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “It’s been a bit, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed.” He patted the spot next to him, and Teiran sat down. 

The god looked small as a Naragi. His face seemed older, and his body seemed more frail; as a god, he’d stood tall. As a mortal, he hunched, almost as though to protect himself. 

“It's fitting,” Guthix said, “seeing myself like this. In the end, try as I might, was I really any different? My actions tore this world to shreds. I brought the stone to Gielinor, which created wars that lasted millenia. I banished the gods, which sent entire cultures into exile and despair.”

Teiran didn’t reply. 

The god sighed again. “Even in death I have brought nothing but pain and misery…”

He turned to her, his eyes filled with sadness. “You look tired, child.”

“I am.” She looked over the horizon, watching the dying sun dip beneath it. “I  _ am _ tired, Guthix. More… well, probably as much as you can imagine.”

“I know. I am sorry.” He bowed his head. “The thing I have done to you is unforgivable. But I did it to save Gielinor.”

“I know,” she said. “And I’ve been fucking it up.”

“No. You have not.”

Teiran looked to him. He was looking at the sun again, his eyes filled with its fiery glint. 

“How?” She said. 

“I know. Even as a memory, I can sense the threads of time. You’ve saved Gielinor from destruction countless times, even if you do not know it yourself.”

“Why me, Guthix?” she said, shaking her head. “I might have saved Runescape once or twice, but I keep putting it in danger even more… why me? I’m nobody.”

He smiled at her, gently, sadly. “I simply knew. And you proved me correct.”

The sun sank lower, slowly darkening the scenery around them. Teiran said nothing. There was nothing to say, really. 

“Tell me,” Guthix said suddenly. “What do you wish for most?”

Teiran thought for a moment. “Not much,” she said. “I guess. The elder gods being gone would be nice. Zamorak and Saradomin getting couple’s counseling, maybe. But otherwise…”

She curled her fingers into her hand, feeling the tips press into her palm. “Seeing Cyrisus again, I suppose. I miss him. But wherever he is now, he’s probably happy. So that’s all that matters to me.”

The god nodded, slowly. “I understand.”

The sun set. Guthix sighed once more, and then rose from his seat. 

“I must leave now,” he said. “As should you.”

He turned to her, tears shining in his eyes. “Forgive me. Do a better job than I did. And... forget me.”

With that, he vanished, leaving her behind in the dying light with only her thoughts. 

* * *

She sat there, for a time, letting her mind wander for a bit before she got up. 

_ I really should be getting back now, _ she thought, stepping away from the stone.  _ Tell Kerapac this whole thing’s a wash. And maybe get some dinner… _

As her foot fell, the world shifted once more; she let out a yelp, for the next place she found herself had no ground, but only roaring ocean beneath her. 

It was storming. This place felt  _ real, _ realer than any place that had come before; salt spray coated her face, and thunder roared above her. 

The ocean was a maelstrom, whirling in a massive pool like someone had pulled a plug from a tub. The waves slapped at her, nearly knocking her off-balance. From the whirlpool’s center she heard a roar; feral, angry,  _ hungry. _ A wave struck her and she slipped; and she was falling, falling, falling towards the middle…

* * *

Teiran fell, and she struck mud. 

She was back in the real world, as far as she could tell; rain was bucketing down from the sky, soaking her to the bone, and the smell of wet earth and bramble were all too real. 

She looked around the clearing, wondering where Kerapac was. Bush, bush, puddle… 

Body. Blue. Tall. Sprawled in the muck, struggling to get up…

An ear-shattering roar came from above her, and Teiran looked up. 

Kerapac was perched atop the needle, his maw open and glowing with an internal inferno. 

“Fool!” He shrieked, the raindrop cloaking him in steam. “You thought the dragonkin would aid you? You've learned nothing! The Needle is ours, and with it, we shall end the shackles of the elder gods once and for all!”

Teiran attempted to stand, only to slip in the mud. The dragonkin flapped his wings, lifting the stone with him. As he did, he opened his jaw once more, and prepared to fire. 

“No!” Teiran screamed, and she reached towards him. The heat singed her fingers, and she felt his hot breath dry the mud around her into hard clay. There was no time, no place to roll away; she looked around, and saw that Gail had vanished, perhaps back into the Needle, perhaps elsewhere; she closed her eyes and waited for the fire and the pain…

The dragonkin breathed out, just as Teiran felt something snatch her from behind and pull her back.


	74. Lightwalk

Teiran opened her eyes. She reflected that she should probably stop closing them. 

She sat up, finding herself surrounded by sand. Sand, and grass, and ocean, and pine trees, and an ancient statue…

“Dragontooth Island?” she said, rising to her feet. “How…?”

She noticed the figure, then. Draped in flaxen white, her hood down, letting her dark hair free to float in the soft wind. The druidess stood with her back to her, but Teiran got the sense that she knew she was there.

“Finally,” the druidess sighed. “I can talk to you freely.”

She turned around. The first thing Teiran noticed were her eyes; a startling green, taking her in with concentrated intensity. “Hmm. You’re a touch late. You waited around, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” The druidess waved it away. “First things first. My name is Aeternam. And I’ve been watching you for a long, long time.”

“What?”

Aeternam pursed her lips. “Not in a creepy way, mind you. Just from a distance. It’s not like I do it in your sleep.”

“What?!”

“Oh, come now. You’ve got a better lexicon than that. Make a little effort.”

Teiran looked at her, eyes wide. “You seriously think you can bring me here, tell me that, and expect me to say anything more than ‘ _ what _ ?’”

“Fair point.” She sat down. “Let’s start over. My name is Aeternam. I’m the World Guardian who came before you.”

“Oh.” Teiran sat in front of her, if only for lack of anything to do. “Are you a memory, too?”

“Not quiiiiite.” The druidess made a face. “I’ve got a bit of what you could call a… temporal condition, I suppose? A chronological lurgy? An allergy to sequentialism?”

Teiran looked at her blankly. Aeternam sighed. 

“I’m unstuck from time, ok? I won’t go into details. It’s a bit of a headache, quite honestly, what with five minutes ago being in the future and tomorrow having happened at tea-time last Essianday for me. Word of advice: Do  _ not _ use the Stone of Jas and The Needle in close proximity to eachother. Bad things happen.  _ Messy  _ things happen.”

“Er, duly noted,” Teiran said. “So… you’re still alive?”

“Not really,” Aeternam said. “You killed me, remember? Back in the cave? Granted, I was a little more firey and watery and earthy and windy at the time...”

“The cave…” Realization struck her. “You… you’re the Balance Elemental?!”

“One-fifth of it, yes.”

“But… how are you here? And not rocky? And… you know!”’

“Unstuck from time, remember?” Aeternam said. “For me, that happens… awhile from now. So don’t worry about it.”

“Ah… erm… well alright then.” Teiran pinched the bridge of her nose. “Um, sorry about killing you…”

“It’s fine. It really is.”

Teiran took a breath, hoping the additional air would somehow cool down her racing brain. “So… you’ve been watching me…?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Here and there. By the Ardougne Zoo. In the Underworld. Around Falador. Making sure that things happen the way they happened.”

“Like what?”

“Haven’t you noticed?” Aeternam said, incredulously. “Who do you think sent the dragon your way? You ought to train him better, by the way, he gets far too enthusiastic about rough play, that was my favorite robe he ripped… oh, and the helm, too. I have to say, replicating handwriting is damn hard…”

“Wait,” Teiran said, her fists slowly clenching. “You’ve been manipulating me? This whole time?” 

“No! No,” Aeternam said, waving her hands. “Just..  _ unblocking _ things. Ushering events along. Pretty much everything you’ve done up until this point has been your choice. I just nudged things here and there.”

“What would have happened if you didn’t?”

“Gielinor would have been destroyed,” Aeternam said, her voice suddenly serious. “About, oh, a year ago. The elder gods would have been awakened, and you and everything you love would have been devoured alive in a snap.”

“Oh,” Teiran said. “Um. Well. I suppose then… Er, how did that…?”

“It’s complicated,” Aeternam said. “Just know this: the future’s changed in small ways. Not big ones.”

Teiran gave her a hard look. “You wouldn’t happen to know any gnomes, would you?”

“Plenty. And the one that I think you’re thinking of.” She smiled a little sadly, and looked out over the ocean. 

“He was a good friend of mine. He lived for so long, and he did so many things, that running into Hazelmere was practically a given.”

Aeternam sighed. “I  _ did _ try to warn him, you know. That night before you did. Talked until my face was blue about the future and time and how it wouldn’t matter in the long run if he died or not…”

Then she laughed. “But he wouldn’t listen, you know? He just called me a silly human, as he always does, and said he’d go even if he knew it’d be his end. And that was the only way he knew.”

Teiran nodded, slowly. “Yeah. That does sound like him.”

“Stubborn fellow,” Aeternam sighed. “Though he is right about the stupid human bit….”

“Listen,” Teiran said. “This is… nice and all. Thank you for saving me back there. And I do want to talk to you more, I really do. But I’m seriously weirded out right now, and I think I might need to lie down and process this for a bit. Is that ok?”

“Certainly.” The druidess stood up and offered a hand. “Though I’ve got one other tidbit of info you might be interested in.”

“What?” She took the hand, and Aeternam hauled her up with surprising strength. 

“Do you know where gods go when they die?”

“Nowhere, right? They don’t have souls, do they?”

“Correct,” Aeternam said. “However, there is  _ somewhere _ they go. Not their souls, but their essence… a kind of massive cosmic drain, so to speak, that pulls out all their anima and dumps it back into the world. It’s a liminal space, mind you. Not even a proper dimension. It’s more like a universal janitor’s closet. Perhaps a rummage drawer.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

She turned to the ocean. “He’s there.”

Teiran froze. “Who?”

“You know who I mean.”

The ocean moved with a hiss, spraying her with its aerated dampness. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the scene and the memories it held. 

“What do you mean?” Her hands were both clenched into fists now, and she was shaking, even though the air was warm. 

“You can pull Cyrisus out of there, Teiran,” Aeternam said. 

Teiran’s breath hitched. Her chest tightened, and she curled her fingers into her palm again. “What are you talking about?” she said softly.

“You can bring him back,” Aeternam said. 

Teiran, however, shook her head. “No, no,  _ no,” _ she said, tears stinging at her eyes. “No, Aeternam. I  _ can’t _ . I tried. There isn’t a way, ok? I’ve looked. Please, gods, I want to. But I know… please, I can’t hope again. I can’t. I  _ can’t. _ ”

She wanted to believe. So hard, she wanted to. But she’d hoped too much and had that crushed away too much, and it was _too damn_ _much…_

Aeternam rested a hand on her shoulder, softly, lighter than the touch of a moth. “I know it’s a lot to take in,” she said. “But it is possible. It’s hard. Incredibly difficult, actually. But possible”

“Will it even make a difference?” she said. “Is this some way that you’re ensuring that Gielinor isn’t getting destroyed?”

“Far from it. If anything, it was his idea.” She pointed near them, and Teiran saw a familiar outline against the sunset. 

Guthix turned to her, his face still lined with tiredness, but with a renewed spark of vigour in his eyes. 

“I did one good thing in my lifetime,” he said. “One act that indisputably improves the world. I gave you the power and the opportunity to do the right thing. This was the burden I placed upon you. And it came with a terrible price.”

He turned towards the sunset, his cheeks glimmering with tears. “I sensed him there when you spoke to me. Some echo that spoke through memory… he was there, and he did not belong there.”

He paused. “My divinity robbed me of seeing my loved ones. I will never see Aagi, nor Fraji, ever again. This I knew when I attained godhood. But you had no choice when I thrust immortality upon you.”

He turned to her again. “Please… allow this to be my payment. Even if it’s small…”

She shook her head. “Guthix… I want to believe you… please. But I’ve been tricked too many times. How do I know this is even real? How do I know it’s even you, speaking to me?”

“Then ask me a question only I would know.”

Teiran thought for a moment. “When I stepped into the chamber,” she said. “And you woke up, what was the first thing I told you?”

Guthix paused, before saying,

“If I recall correctly, I believe it was, ‘Blimey, you look nothing like your statues.’”

“I… yes.” She nodded, slowly, tearfully. “Yeah, it was that.”

The god smiled at her. “Go,” he said. “Trust Aeternam. What she says is true. This is what little I can do for you. But I bid you accept it with grace.”

She nodded. “I will.”

Then she turned to Aeternam, blinking away the tears stinging her eyes. “What do I have to do?”

“The plane he’s on is adjacent to Dreamland, which I’m sure you’re familiar with,” Aeternam said. “So the methodology of getting there is similar. Make a potion, dump it in the brazier, all that. The rub is the ingredients.”

“What are they?”

“Well, the first one nonspecifically needs to hold an enormous amount of catalytic divine power just to get you there. In this case, a chunk of the Stone of Jas.”

Teiran cursed. “It was blown up! There’s nothing left of it. I suppose if I go back down to the Heart with a sieve…”

“No need,” Aeternam said. “You’re in the Needle, remember? You just need to nip back to the past and grab some. Shouldn’t cause too much temporal abnormality.”

“Kerapac’s controlling it, though. He’ll know I have it the minute I jump out.”

“Hide it, then. Somewhere you know you’ll find it in the future. Simple as that.”

“Fine enough. What’s the second ingredient?”

Aeternam leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. Teiran made a face.

“Really? Why the hell is it in  _ everything _ ? You know what? Fine. Fuck it. If you told me I’d need a bit of Saradomin’s beard, I’d still do it.”

She took a breath and released it, thankful that it didn’t come out in a scream. “Right. I’m ready then.”

Aeternam nodded. “Head off that way,” she said, pointing to the sea. “I can point the Needle in the right direction for you. You just do the walking.”

“Ok.” She looked to where Guthix stood. He was still watching the sea.

“You’ll see me soon,” Aeternam said. “I’m fairly certain.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Teiran said. With that, she turned towards the ocean and walked into the waves, letting the water take her.

* * *

She could breathe in this ocean, though it was black and cold; it sounded as though she were stepping through puddles, but she didn’t look down. 

Teiran walked. Forward. Elsewhere. Somewhere. Till she saw light ahead of her, and then she walked faster. 

The scene faded into view. Weeks had passed, but it was still fresh in her mind. The stone, bright as anything. Kerapac, flying overhead, a beam shooting from the staff in his hands towards it. Her own self, glowing with power, while the gods were frozen mid-reaction. 

Well, not entirely frozen. Things were moving — slowly, slowly. The beam crept towards the stone like cold treacle. Teiran saw herself blink, and Sliske’s face slowly transform into a deeper and deeper snarl. 

She considered something, and leaned forward to herself. 

“Duck,” she whispered. She watched her own eyes widen in slow-motion, and then her body behind to sink to the ground. 

The beam struck.

Spiderweb cracks crossed the stone’s mosaic surface like slow frost, covering it completely. It glowed, brighter and brighter, and slowly burst outward in an explosive bloom. She watched the chunks fly outwards as though pulled by invisible strings, and one slowly drifted by her in its trajectory.

Teiran reached out and snatched the bit of stone, hissing in pain as it burned into her palm. Even as she felt her flesh bubble and singe she held on, and the chunk slowly cooled, staying whole was it companions landed, crumbling to dust. 

She held it like the most precious thing in the world, refusing to let go as she stepped forward again. The scene shifted again, and she found herself standing in the Ardougne Zoo, eerily devoid of its animal sounds. 

_ Somewhere safe. Somewhere that the dragonkin can’t find it, or that won’t be disturbed, _ she thought. She stepped again. Yanille bank. No. Step. Draynor Bank. Definitely not. Step. Stealing Creation. Maybe…? Nah. Step. 

On her dozenth footfall she found herself in a cluttered room, filled with random potions and staves and old armour. It was only when she saw the glow of the star flower in the vial on the bedside table that she recognized it; it was her house. 

_ Perfect.  _ She rummaged around the junk on her floor, settling on an old music box she’d gotten from some quest or other. She pulled the clockwork open and shut the fragment inside, snapping the cover back with great care, and then shoved it under her bed. 

_ That’s as good as hidden, _ she thought.  _ If I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t be able to find it. _

She stood up. “Alright, Aeternam, I’m all set. Can you send me back?”

“Give me a moment,” she said, her voice resonating muffledly around her. “It might take a few more steps. After that, you’ll be pitched right out, so be prepared.”

“Got it.”

She took another step. A cliffside by Rellekka. Another. The fountain in Nardah. One more. 

A cave. A small one, that glittered with rune essence and echoed with the stomps of the suqahs up above….

Teiran froze. 

It wasn’t quiet here; she could hear everything from the monsters’ footsteps to the  _ tap-tap-tap _ of a distant pickaxe in the next chamber over. And the slow, ragged breaths of the man that lay before her.

He was a crumpled, sad-looking heap on the floor, covered with bruises and cuts. 

She… was something else entirely. Her hand still ached with the burn on it, and her eyes still stung with tears. She sported mud stains on her armour from the scuffle before, and her hair, between the damp and the action, probably looked like a rat’s nest, and her clothes were soaked, and…

The man let out a groan again, and deliriously turned his head towards her. His lips were dry and his eyes were hallowed, and his eyes settled, bleary, on her.

“Hello?” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Who’s there? Where am I?”

“You’re in a cave on Lunar Isle,” she said. She let herself drop to her knees, and, against all better sense, took his hand. It was smooth; smooth and dry, the hands of a man who knew hard work, but not hard battle. 

“Who are you?” he asked, His eyes were unfocused, but they still beheld her. 

“...a friend,” she said, softly. “It’s ok. Don’t worry. Someone will come and help you soon.”

He nodded, slowly, and slumped back, too tired to say anything else. Every nerve in her body wanted to pick him up and hold him; to carry him to safety, to help him and heal him and to be there. 

Instead, she leaned forward and softly kissed his cheek, hoping the tears in her eyes would not fall and rouse him. Then, after a moment’s thought, she reached into her armour and pulled out an envelope — tattered and ragged from so long. She pulled out a very battered choc-ice wrapper and, gently as she could, tucked it into his pocket. 

“I’ll find you. Soon. I promise.”

He let out another groan in reply, and the  _ tap-tap-tap _ next door suddenly halted. She heard the sound of footsteps, and then someone scrabbling at the cave’s entrance.

She stood up quickly. Then, with one last look to the man that lay before her, she stepped forward, winking out of sight before her foot could fall. 

* * *

Teiran’s foot met nothing but air; a roar filled her ears and she felt herself leave the Needle, and she tumbled away from it towards land far below. 

She heard Kerapac shriek above her, but it was no match for the shriek that filled her ears as the wind whipped by her. Teiran fell, tumbling, gasping for air she couldn’t snatch, as her eyes streamed and her fingers turned numb. Desperately, she began to unbuckle her armor, flinging each piece as far from her as she could in an attempt to decrease her velocity. 

A part of her mourned the millions in gp she was throwing away. It was quickly overruled by the parts that were screaming.

Just as she flung away her boots, she hit water, hard as concrete. She gasped, her muscles and bones exploding in pain as she clawed her way to the surface; and there, she was only able to float, letting the currents take her where they would. 

* * *

When the waves rolled her onto a beach Teiran gasped, grabbing at the ground with hands turned into claws by the cold. She sat up, shivering, coughing, thankful to find that she’d broken no bones. Then, on impulse, she looked at her right palm.

A jagged burn mark stood out against waterlogged flesh, looking more beautiful than any star in the sky, and she grinned.

“Uh,” a voice behind her said. “Are you ok?”

She turned around. A woman in studded green leather armour, a scar snaking across her face, was lying on the beach with a bottle in her hand. She looked rather concerned. 

“Never been better.” Teiran stood up and removed her hat, wringing out her damp hair, before heading off towards the ghost dinghy back to Port Phasmatys. 

“I just had a bit of a hard fall.”


	75. Getting on With Things

Teiran stood before the portal in Rimmington with a touch of trepidation. 

_ Two years,  _ she thought. Had it been ransacked? Had Marianne left behind any onions? What if there were rats?

_ Oh, get over yourself,  _ she thought.  _ Whatever’s in there, you can handle. _

She took a breath and stepped through. The smell of dust assaulted her almost immediately, and she was reduced to a coughing fit for several minutes. 

When she was through, she opened her eyes. 

“Huh,” she said, giving the parlour a glance. “Other than the bloodstains and the bolt in the mantle, this place hasn’t changed a bit.”

And then the explosive on the floor set off.

* * *

Teiran shoved the pile of gold onto Death’s desk, snatching her cavalier from the chest and slamming it on her head. Death looked at her puzzledly, leaning forward.

“You’re planning something,” he said, slowly. “Aren’t you?”

“Me?” She gave the reaper her best doe-eyed look of innocence. “Never, Harold. Now, if you don’t mind me, I have business to attend to.”

Teiran felt his gaze upon her as she left through the portal. 

* * *

Teiran took great care in stepping over the gaping floor left in her living room this time around before racing up the stairs, wrenching the door to her room open. 

It was just as messy as always, of course, and she proceeded to make it messier by tearing through the piles of junk.  _ C’mon, c’mon, it’s in here, I know! _

After about an hour of sorting, she slumped back against the bed in defeat.  _ Did I move it somewhere?  _

A glint caught her eye. She peeked over the bed, and, for the first time, noticed the star flower in the vial. She thought it had long-wilted; instead, it still glittered, pristine as the day it’d been cut. 

She sighed, smiling as she did so.  _ The world is full of surprises, huh _ ?

She looked to the piles around her. _And junk._ _If I ever move back here, I’m just getting a wheelbarrow and taking it to…_

She froze.  _ Idiot! _

* * *

Teiran stood before Melzar’s Maze with some trepidation, noting how the door bulged a bit near the bottom. 

_ It’s probably just wood-rot, _ she told herself.  _ If you can dodge a monster, you can dodge a few quest-items. _

With a careful touch, she opened the door. The jumble she revealed, while threateningly towering, did not move.

“Alright,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Second time’s the charm.”

Something in the pile shifted. Throughout Melzar’s Maze, a deep rumble echoed. 

“Oh, FUC—”

* * *

The look Death gave her was even more dubious the second time around. 

“You  _ are _ planning something,” he said, the dots in his eyes narrowing. “I demand to know of it.”

“No idea what you’re talking about!” she said, grabbing her armor.

* * *

After another half-hour of searching, Teiran found it, her palm tingling as her hand closed around the music box. 

She wrenched the cover off, letting the stone tumble into her hand. It glowed, a far cry from the power she’d felt before, but it still felt warm under her fingertips. 

As she emerged from the maze, she heard the sound of a rapier being swished menacingly through the air. 

“Stand and deliver!” The highwayman gave her what he probably thought was a menacing look. She stared at him, blankly. 

“Really?” she said. “ _ Really?” _

He waved the rapier at her again. “Your money or your life!”

Teiran sighed. “I’m not even going to…” she paused. “Wait. You look familiar…”

She reached over and snatched off the mask, revealing the face of a thug from long before. 

“ _ You _ !” She shouted. “You’re that house-invader Lucien hired! I threatened your sensitives! I told you that if you ever saw you again, that you’d better have been a monk!”

All the colour in the man’s face drained. “Oh. Erm. Are you sure it’s not a case of, um, mistaken identity?”

Teiran said nothing. Instead, she grabbed a dramen staff from the pile next to her and swung.

* * *

Burntmeat happily stirred the miscellaneous contents of his pot, humming a rhythmless troll tune as he did so. The boys upstairs had complained a fair bit when he’d switched from humans to goats, though they’d been quickly shut up when the seasonings hit the table. Goat did have its own appeal to it, of course; mostly that it didn’t send massive armies after you when you ate it.

A cacophonous clutter from the storage room broke his concentration. The cook looked up to see a human making their way up the stairs, the unconscious bodies of several troll guards littered behind it. The figure had a goutweed crate tucked under one arm, and a sack hanging over their shoulder.

They had a helm. A nice one. It was red, and it had horns in it.

“Human!” Bruntmeat shrieked. “You… you takin’ all da goutweed?”

“Yes.” Teiran put the crate down. “I’ve had enough bloody headaches from you lot. If Guthix has any grace left, I’ll never have to go down there again…”

“But… but... “ he sputtered. “We be needin’ dat!”

“My Arm can farm some more, can’t he?”

“Da next batch ain’t gonna be done til tomorrow!” Burntmeat gestured to the pot. “And dinner in an hour!”

“Fine. I figured something like this would happen.” She pulled the sack away from her shoulder and plopped it before the troll. The thing inside it uttered several curses.

“One human,” she said. “Bona fide. Can’t say much about his diet, but I daresay you can make do.”

The troll’s eyes widened. “You…”

“One time deal, mate. It’s back to goat after this. Got it?”

The troll nodded. He lifted the sack, noting its weight with some satisfaction, and waddled towards the pot. 

Trollheim was eating  _ well _ tonight.

* * *

Teiran stared at the potion. It was black; not translucent or murky, but darker than ink in her hand. 

Death paced before her, his bony feet clattering against the stone floor of the Lunar Isle longhall. The Oneiromancer sat next to him, watching him with interest, while Icthlarin stood nearby. Teiran had considered pulling Bird’s Eye Jack in, if only for the sake of having someone less than a century old in the room; however, he was apparently off on an impromptu sea voyage.

So instead, she leaned against the table, arms crossed, and prepared for an argument.

Death started. “What you are attempting,” he said, “is… is…”

“Reckless?” Teiran said, raising an eyebrow. “Foolish? Imprudent? Inadvisable? Pick one.”

“All of them!” The reaper threw up his hands. “Have you lost your mind? Bringing back the dead violates the very orders of balance you are bound to protect!”

“Guthix was fine with it.”

“He was a memory!”

“Aeternam was also fine with it.”

“She… is a special case,” Death said carefully. “Her purview is under time. Not death, which is my domain. One you are violating.”

“He’s in the land of the dead gods! Which, I’m told, isn’t meant for mortals.”

Icthlarin nodded. “She is right, Harold. If he is there, he may cause an anima imbalance.”

“A negligible one,” Death said. “The consequences of this…  _ resurrection _ attempt will be far greater, I believe.”

“How so?” 

“Being World Guardian does not grant you special privileges,” he said. “If word gets out that you brought back the dead… what will come next? What of all the others who died? Is it fair to them?”

“He’s been flung into a universal rummage drawer!” she snapped. “How is that fair to him? Is this how you plan on rewarding him?” She gave him a hard look. “There are rules, Harold. I get that. But aren’t there some that you’re willing to break?”

She stared the reaper in the eyes, her gaze flicking to Icthlarin for the briefest moment. That did not escape Death’s notice, and his eyes narrowed. 

“I… acknowledge this,” he said, carefully. “There is, however, one other concern that carries equal weight. The land of dead gods is not easily entered. And it is not easily exited, either. I have examined the enchantments on that potion, The window of time you will be given in opening a passage will be brief.”

“How brief?”

“One hour.”

“And then?   


“It closes. And anything within is trapped. Forever.”

The room went silent. The Oneiromancer still said nothing, while Icthlarin’s hairs bristled. The only sounds were from the ocean waves, crashing against the cold rocks in the distance.

“That’s a risk,” Teiran said, “I’m willing to take.”

Death gave her another long, hard look, before bowing his head. 

“Fine,” he said, heavily. “I cannot convince you.”

He looked up to her again, the blue lights in his eyes suddenly blazing with fury. “I will hold you to one thing, however,” Death said. “If you are delayed, or if there is any indication that you will not make it back to the passageway in time, you will make every effort to return. No matter what the circumstances are. Understand? If this means you must leave him behind, then you must. Gielinor needs a guardian. And we cannot afford to lose you.”

She narrowed her eyes, waiting long before she replied. “Fine.”

“Swear it.”

“Sure. I swear…” she thought for a moment. “On my hat.”

Icthlarin’s eyes widened. “Your hat?”

“Yeah. My hat.” She touched the cavalier on her head. “I haven’t seen my mum in over a decade. My soul’s been ripped open already. Guthix is dead, and I don’t put much faith in the gods to vow anything on them. This hat’s been through everything. So it’s as solid a promise as you’ll ever get.”

“Very well then,” Death said, his glare still hard on her. She ignored it, and turned to the brazier, potion in hand. She gave the Oneiromancer a quick nod. 

“I’ll try not to make it explode this time,” Teiran said. The mage smiled. 

“Be careful out there, Teiran,” the Oneiromancer said. “Good luck.”

Teiran pulled the cork free. Carefully, shakingly, she held it over the fire and tipped it over, breathing deeply as her lungs filled with black smoke.


	76. Dream

Sand was the first thing Teiran noticed: sand black as night, as a million crushed onyxes, and stars stretching overhead like the work of a careless painter. The constellations were unfamiliar; even if she had time, she doubted she could find Rat Eating String Bean among them. 

Next was the wind. It whipped around her, and she had to grab her hat to prevent it from flying away. It cut into her skin like a knife, carrying shards of sand with it that struck and stung her face.

Third was the mountain, green and vast before her. She recognized it now: It was Guthix, still as stone, frozen in his repose. He looked peaceful, at least, which was a small comfort. 

Teiran took a breath. Dunes stretched before her, endless and unbroken. 

_One hour,_ she thought, noting the pearly dream lectern behind her, translucent in the background. _No time to waste._

Teiran walked, fighting the wind, and sand that pulled her down into its unsteadying embrace. She was wearing little armour; in fact, the only things she had about her were her whip and a teleport scroll. She wasn’t planning on the latter being particularly reliable in these circumstances, but it made her feel slightly better about things.

She walked. She didn’t stop, even as the wind howled against her. She didn’t stop even when she passed by the stone visage of a heavily-armoured figure, half-buried in the sand like it was meant to be forgotten. She didn’t stop when the sand half-blinded her and scored her skin raw. She just kept walking, walking, moving forward, with only one goal burning in her mind. 

Twenty minutes had passed when she saw it. 

It was dark; almost unnoticeable against the black ground, though its clothing moved in a way that nothing else did. When her eyes caught it, she sprinted with all her might, half-sliding down the dunes and hills towards it. 

Her hands touched cloth, and she pulled it towards her. A face, pale, white, appeared before her. It was thin and lifeless, eyes closed; the beard was too long, the hair too unkempt, but…

_It’s him,_ she thought. _It’s him. Gods, it’s_ him _._

She picked Cyrisus up in her arms, wincing at how light he felt, and pressed her ear to his chest. Within it she could hear a heart — slow, faint, but surely beating. 

Not wasting a moment, tears stinging in her eyes, she stood up. With great delicacy, as though he might break, she positioned him over her shoulder. Then, slowly, carefully, laboriously, she began to walk. 

* * *

She walked. The wind picked up. She walked. She sunk down to her shins in the dunes.. She walked. Her legs burned. She walked.

Now and again she thought she saw something flicker in the corner of her eye; she didn’t stop to investigate. 

_Get there. Get there. 15 minutes,_ she thought, lifting her legs as they grew heavier with every moment. _Get there. I know I can. Get there._

When the lectern came into view, she almost cried with relief and moved even faster. _I’m almost…_

As she hurried forward, something dark blinked into view, even blacker than the sand; it blotted out the stars behind it. 

Teiran threw herself to the side as it flung a wave of shadow at her. The sand cushioned her fall, and she took great care to hold Cyrisus’ body upright as she landed. As she struggled to sit up, the figure blinked into being in front of her, hand held out ready to strike. 

“You know,” Sliske’s voice hissed from the shadow, “when I went hitchhiking on your soul, _this_ is the last place I expected you to be.”

He fired, and Teiran instinctively closed her eyes against the inevitable blast.

Which never came. 

Teiran opened her eyes. 

The shadow had disappeared. Everything in front of her was blue: a bright, deep colour that she’d seen before in the Underworld, glowing with an intensity like fire. The wind whipped its robes and hair wildly, and it stood with his back to her. 

But she knew it. She knew that shape better than any other person in all the world. 

“Teiran,” Cyrisus said, looking down to her. “What are you doing here?”

She almost laughed, out of sheer relief and shock, unable to suppress the giddy grin that spread across her face. “I would ask you the same.”

She scrambled to her feet. “No time for questions. I need to get you out of here.”

“I—” Cyrisus looked away from her. The shadow was reforming several feet away, and he tensed. “That thing… it’s like the mahjarrat who threw me in here.”

“Threw you in…?” she said in confusion. “You know what? Tell me later. We need to get past him if we’re to get out of here.”

She paused. “Unless…”

She dug around in her pockets for the teleport scroll. To her horror, she found it had vanished. 

“Yoo hoo!” Sliske crowed. He held up a roll of parchment, whipping it wildly in the wind. “Looking for this?” 

He tore the scroll in half, tossing the pieces away. “Whoops! Guess you’ll have to stay here and be all buddy-buddy with me, huh?”

Teiran let out a roar, unhitching her whip and charging towards the mahjarrat. As she slashed towards him, he disappeared, reappearing next to her and blowing a raspberry. 

“You know what I find hilarious?” Sliske crowed. “You were _so close_ to seeing him down in the Underworld! When Mr. Name-Sound-Like-A-Skin-Disease started whaling on Nomad’s little pet, it was all I could do but to chuck him into the Shadow Realm to keep him out of the way. And you know what? He fought harder still! Wouldn’t take a deal, wouldn’t take no for an answer…”

He grinned. “The determined little mite nearly escaped! When Gielinor died, and this happy little realm opened up for a hot moment, I figured it would be less hassle for me to chuck him in here. I suppose it’s a cherry on the cake that I can trap _you_ in here as well…”

Teiran roared again, slashing at Sliske once more — but he vanished, and rematerialized once more. “Go on!” he sniggered. “Keep going! I can do this _alllll_ day!” 

A blast hit him on the side, taking him by surprise. Teiran looked over to see Cyrisus, still standing over his own body, his hands outstretched. 

“Oho!” Sliske said. “It’s the dynamic duo now, huh?” He dodged another blast, cackling away. “Go on, try that again! I only need to stay so long as to delay you. By...” He checked his wrist. “Another ten minutes, it seems!”

Teiran cursed. She couldn’t dodge blasts and carry Cyrisus’s body at the same time. And if one of them hit… she shuddered, trying not to think of the faintness of the heartbeat she’d heard. 

She looked over to Sliske, who was still dodging blasts from Cyrisus. She looked to the lectern, still far-off, but close enough that she could reach it by sprinting. 

With Sliske distracted…

She reached a decision.

She turned to Cyrisus, still blasting away. Their eyes met.

“Cyrisus!” she screamed, willing her voice to overcome the persistent howl of the wind. “Goutweed!”

His eyes widened. And, slowly, he nodded. 

Teiran turned and _ran,_ skidding over the dunes and sand with all her might, gaze centered on the fading lectern in front of her. 

“Oh, no you don’t!” she heard from behind her.

The first blast struck the sand next to her; the second one nearly hit her feet, and the third one landed neatly in the small of her back. Even then, she rallied, blasting herself forward with the momentum of the spell before she fell, landing with a hard crash. 

She rolled over just as Sliske caught up to her, his shadowy face a mask of mirth as he towered over her. 

“You think you’ve won, haven’t you?” he cackled. “But guess what? I have the last laugh! Death can’t save you here, can he? You’ll be trapped here forever, and Gielinor will be left without a guardian. When Jas eats the universe, maybe you’ll be lucky! She might just rip the walls open and let you crawl out, just in time for you to see everything you love disappear down an elder god’s maw. What will you say then? Hmmm?”

“Two words,” she spat. “Fuck you.”

The blue blast hit Sliske upside the hide. He let out a shriek, as cerulean flame licked across his form, eating him like fire eats paper. He fell to the ground, falling as his form began to crumble.

“I’ll be back!’ he screamed, looking up to her with a look of pure malice. “You’ll see! You’ve just pushed me back into the depths. I’ll be in here. In you. _Waiting._ And what will save you when I return, World Guardian? What will keep you going in those lonely years, when everyone you know is done and dead? Sheer will? The power of love? Your sense of duty?”

“No.” Teiran got up, and passed the fading shade by without sparing it a glance. 

“Spite.”

* * *

When she reached Cyrisus’s body again, his spectre was already fading, becoming more and more transparent against the desert backdrop. 

“I can’t keep this going much longer,” he said, his voice becoming fainter. “I’ll have to go back to being unconscious again, I suppose. Will you be able to make it?”

“Of course,” she said, grinning as she picked up the body once more. “Who the hell do you think I am?”

He smiled, and as he did, every ache and pain in Teiran’s overworked muscles disappeared, replaced by a glowing warmth. 

“Teiran,” he said, his voice barely noticeable against the wind. “I hope I’ll see you….”

“Soon,” she reassured him, trudging over the sand. “Soon.”

The wind picked up, forcing itself against her like a relentless wall. Teiran forged on, pushing through the sand and holding her head down against the onslaught. _I can make it… I can make it…_

The lectern was growing fainter. Cyrisus’s body felt heavier with every step, but she refused to let go. 

A sudden gust of wind struck her face, and she felt her cavalier lift off her head. The wind carried it away, off and behind her; she didn’t even mind, her thoughts consumed by one goal. 

_Nearly there…_

Her hand reached out. The lectern was barely visible now, a faint pretty outline against the starkness of the desert. _One… more.. Step…_

But before she could take it, the image shuddered. With a howl of the wind it vanished, leaving the horizon unbroken, and leaving her alone in a vast and dark desert.

* * *

Teiran swore, loudly and bitterly. She waved her hand where the lectern had been, and found it met nothing.

_Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_ Fuck! _I was_ this _godsdamn close!_

She searched her pockets for something — _anything_ — that she could use. Chalks? No, she couldn’t draw a home teleport circle in the sand… some lint? _Fuck!_ She should have packed more....

She placed Cyrisus’s body down in despair, tears stinging at her eyes. _I got to see him,_ she thought bitterly, _at least. One last time. Hear his voice and see him smile. I suppose that’s all I could truly ask for._

As she reflected on this, she felt something tug around her neck. 

Teiran reached under her shirt. The diamond ring still hung there on the cord, barely noticeable after all this time. It glimmered in the starlight, warm from her chest. 

Slowly, carefully, she curled her pinky around the rim. She pulled Cyrisus’s arm free, taking his hand towards her own, tracing her fingertips over a hand that had lost its roughness. She pulled the ring over his last finger, holding onto it, holding onto him, like her life depended on it. 

As the world shimmered around her, and she heard bells, she prayed that the teleportation magic worked for two.

* * *

Teiran landed with a loud grunt, hitting the longhall floor unceremoniously. Smoke and light and sound rushed towards her, and she heard the shouts of Death and the Oneiromancer and the bark of Icthlarin all assault her at once.

Her vision swam and her muscles burned. She was unable to stand, instead slumping back down on the floor. 

There was something underneath her. It was warm, she realised. It smelt…. Odd. Like sand. And dust. And smoke. But also of something else… 

It was faint. But she could swear that it smelt of woodchips. 

As her vision faded, and she pressed herself to this warm and wonderful _thing_ beneath her, she could hear the slow, faint, steady beat of a heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret nothing.


	77. On the Up

Teiran woke up. 

The ceiling… didn’t matter. She bolted upright, startling Meteora, who’d been sitting next to her and reading a book.

“How long have I been out?” Teiran asked.    


“About a day,” Meteora said, putting the book aside. 

“Fine.” She scrabbled for her hat, when she realized that she hadn’t brought it with her. “And what about —?”

“Two houses down,” Meteora said. “The Oneiromancer’s with him.”

Teiran threw herself out of the bed, not caring that she was barefoot, and raced down the street of the Lunar Isle village. When she reached the house she flung the door open, making everyone — save for the man in the bed — jump. 

“How is he?” she said, racing to his side. His face was still bony, and his skin was still sallow, but his breath rose and fell in his chest — a sight more beautiful than all the sunsets and gold and wossnames in the world.

“Stable,” the Oneiromancer said. “With some signs of improvement.”

“When will he wake up?”

The mage shrugged. “When he’s ready.”

* * *

“He may never truly recover from this,” Death said. 

Teiran didn’t even look over, her eyes still locked on the man before her. The reaper had arrived about an hour after she woke up, and she’d barely greeted him; now he stood beside her, his skeletal arms crossed. Cyrisus hadn’t yet stirred, simply breathing shallowly, his face gaunt and pale against the white linen. 

“He may not have the strength he once had,” Death continued.

“I know,” Teiran said. 

“And he will die again, mind you. When his time comes.”

“I know.”

“And you can live with this?”

She nodded, slowly. 

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I can.”

Death remained silent, for a measure. And then: 

“I also note you are lacking in your hat.”

“Hmm?” she said distractedly. “Oh. That. I must have left it at home.”

“I believe I saw you wearing it,” Death said icily, “before you embarked on this journey.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

* * *

Time stretched on. Teiran stayed, seldom leaving the bedside even to eat or drink. She watched him more vigilantly than any guard dog, barely sleeping. The colour slowly began to return to Cyrisus’s face, and the breaths he took became deeper, though he still didn’t stir. 

Every now and again, she’d dig her nails into her arm, just to tell herself it was real. 

_ What will I say to him? _ she thought. She didn’t dare to touch him, almost afraid to, even after she had carried him.  _ Is there anything I  _ can _ say to him? It’s been over two years, Teiran. The world’s not the same.  _ You’re  _ not the same.  _

She sighed.  _ Whatever. However he feels… he didn’t deserve to fade away. You did the least you could for him. _

And all she could do was wait.

* * *

On the third day he stirred; without thinking, she reached out and touched his hand, and she felt it grip her back, though weakly.

Cyrisus blinked, his eyes bleary in the dim afternoon light. 

“Teiran?” 

Her chest tightened. Her body began to shake, as much as she tried to hold it back, and her eyes. Stung with tears.

“Hello,” she said, through the lump in her throat. 

“Where… where am I?”

“You’re on Lunar Isle,” she said, softly. “Not in a cave this time. Fortunately.”

“I must be dreaming... “ he muttered. “Or… this is one of Sliske’s tricks…”

“No.” She held his hand a little tighter, though still delicately. “This is real.”  _ Please let it be real. Gods, please... _

His eyes focused on her more clearly now, looking her over, taking her in. “You… look different…”

She breathed in sharply, and tensed, waiting for it. He would say that she looked more powerful, or that she was brimming with anima; he could remark on her scars, how she carried herself differently, and it would be the World Guardian nonsense, all over again…

“You cut your hair,” he said, a faint smile creeping up on his lips. “It looks nice.”

“Oh.” She found herself blushing for the first time in what felt like forever; and the burning in her cheeks was a glow she welcomed. 

“Thank you.”

* * *

“A lot’s changed.”

Cyrisus was sitting up, now, nibbling on biscuits. Teiran had done her best to update him on two years worth of Gielinorian history, which he was taking fairly well. 

“So the elder god thing…” he said. 

“I’m handling it,” she replied, a touch quickly. “Right now, we’re in a bit of a better place before now that the Stone of Jas is out of the picture.”

“But it’s your job to stop them?”

“More or less.”

“Bloody hell, Teiran.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying to myself for the past two damn years,” she said. “Between the god bullshit, the mahjarrat, and the price of dragon chains dropping…”

“Wait, they dropped?”

“Tanked. Adventurers just don’t go for dragon armour now. It’s all orikalkum and such.”

“Damn. Well, I suppose you sold the one in my bank early enough…”

“About that…” She grimaced. “I never touched your bank.”

“What?!” He sat upright, his look incredulous. “I willed it to you, you know!”

“I didn’t think I needed it!” she said. “And, well… it’s your stuff. It would have felt, you know,  _ weird… _ ”

He smiled, taking her hand into his. “The point is moot now, I suppose. Gods, though, the paperwork is going to be a nightmare….”

She let out a laugh, the cold lump that had been sitting in her chest for the past three days slowly beginning to thaw. He was grinning again, his pale cheeks flushed once more, and it was a sight she could watch forever.

“Damnit,” she said; the sting in her eyes was back, and she could feel the tears begin to prick at their edges; however, she didn’t stop them. “ _ Damnit _ , I missed you.”

He reached up, before she could stop him, and rested his hand on her left cheek, softly wiping away the wetness with his thumb. 

“I missed you, too,” he said. “I… I can’t remember much about… well, what was down there…”

“You didn’t wait for me, did you?” she said. “I…”

“I would have waited for you forever, Teiran,” he said. “No matter how long it took.”

She didn’t reply. The two looked at each other, the silence settling in around them as her heart slowed. His hand still lay on her cheek, and she made no efforts to remove it.

“Cyrisus,” she said, breaking the silence. “I saved you… I saved you because…”

She trailed off. “I want you to live a full life, alright? One you couldn’t get. One you wanted me to have. I… I got a lot more in that bargain than I expected. Which… um… means....”

She sighed, shaking her head and squeezing her eyes shut, before looking to him again. “I’m saying… you’re not obligated to anything. It’s been a long time, and I understand if you —”

“I get it.” He pulled his hand away, to her regret, and she heard his voice was tinted with sorrow. “I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? If you’ve found someone else, then I understand —” 

“What?!” she snapped, louder than she meant to. “What? No. No, it’s not that.” She took a breath. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay with me. Because of this, I mean.”

She paused. “I… I love you. I haven’t stopped loving you this whole time. But I don’t want you to think you owe me —”

Teiran never finished her sentence. Grunting with effort, Cyrisus pulled himself up from the bed, leaned over and kissed her. 

Instinctively, she grabbed him around the waist to keep him from falling back. She stiffened, her mind reeling in panic as she took it in; a sensation so long gone it was unfamiliar, she was unsure of what to do. 

Then, all it once, her thoughts settled into one realization:

_ I’m the biggest idiot in all of RuneScape. _

She relaxed, pulling him closer to her as she supported his weight. His scent was there, though still faint; wood chips and spice under a layer of something dusty and plain. One of his hands curled up through her hair, and old things came bubbling up in her again — heartbreak. Longing. Loneliness. 

She’d missed this.  _ Gods _ , how she missed this. 

There it was. His breath on his cheek, left colder by the tears. His fingers knotting themselves in her curls. With warmth. Every moment that passed it felt realer, dulling what had hurt her. 

She didn’t know how long they kissed for. When he pulled away it was too soon — ah, it would always be too soon. But even then, seeing his face, blurred by her watering eyes, made her grin as he smiled back at her. 

They said nothing. Nothing needed to be said, really. 

Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him again, curling her arms around his blessedly solid body once more; and every inch of her felt at home.

* * *

A week passed. Teiran still seldom left Cyrisus’s side, as much as he insisted that she get more sleep. The first instance she left him for a stretch was when Bird’s Eye Jack returned from his sea voyage.

She heard the piratical cursing from well across the island, and then the steady thump of footsteps as the door to the house slammed open. Jack’s eyes darted between her and Cyrisus, and the colour drained from the pirate’s face as he slowly shook his head.

“How…?”

At this point, Teiran rose from the chair. “I’ll leave you two to catch up,” she said. Cyrisus shot her a quick smile, which she returned, before passing by the speechless Jack and walked out the door.

She passed the time by Baba Yaga’s house, idly carving out a magic bow as she watched Berty scratch up the ground; at one point, she heard Jack’s voice rise over the house again.

“You WHAT?!”

She snorted, and then turned back to her fletching. 

Ten minutes later, the door to the house slammed open, and she heard the crunch of gravel under heavy boots behind her, accompanied by the slosh of something that, most likely, was Certainly Not Rum.

Jack sighed. “Only you,” he said, “could have pulled that off.” 

“I don’t know,” Teiran said, not taking her eyes off her carving. “For all I know, there are folks that go to the land of the dead every other fortnight for sight-seeing.”

“Aw, shut yer gob.”

“Is that a compliment, then?”

He didn’t reply. She turned, and saw that he was glaring daggers at her, the still-open flask in his hand. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” she said, measuredly, “I did end up getting a little lost.”

“Hm. I’d believe it.” He took another swig. “He’s not a zombie, is he?”

“No.”

“Good.” With that, he turned, back towards the bank. “He’d better not turn all green or some bilge like that. Then you’re in for a keelhaulin’.”

“Fine enough.” With that, she rose, tossing the carving to the side. “I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

She started to head back to the house when Jack’s voice stopped her.

“Oi.”

She turned. “What?” Jack's face was expressionless, though his eyebrows were knitted together in seeming conflict.

“...thank ya,” he said. 

She didn’t reply. The only sound was the slosh of the now-distressingly emptier flask, as Jack took another draft.

“You’d better keep him safer this time,” he said, as he came back down. “Or I swear…”

“Trust me,” she said, turning back to where Cyrisus was waiting. “I will.”

* * *

The next day, as the sun began to skim the ocean around Lunar Isle, Cyrisus tried to stand up on his own. Teiran had to support him, a first, and the initial steps he took were stumbling, but they became more and more solid with every moment. 

He’d suggested that they attempt to walk to the Astral Altar for practice. When he did, Teiran had nodded, and disappeared for a stretch, before returning with a secretive grin on her face.

“What are you plotting?” he said, as she helped him out of bed. “You’re not going to make me fight a hoard of suqahs, are you?”

“Not in your state,” she said. “I was just clearing out that bit of the island. I can’t fight and support you at the same time.”

“Ah, sorry —”

“Oh, hush. This is strictly temporary,” she said, shifting her grip on him. “You’ll be back to fighting things in no time. I mean, you were better than me when you started out, so whatever training method you used will probably be handy…”

At this he blushed, scarlet creeping up his shallow cheeks with sudden brilliance.

“About that,” he said, his voice meek. “I… never told you, did I?”

“Told me what?”

“How I got my combat skills,” he said. “It wasn’t lamps. Or combat dummies.”

“How, then?”

He took a breath. 

“Chickens.”

She stared at him. Part of her wanted to laugh, thinking it was a joke. But a far more sensible part of her told her that he was serious.

“Chickens?” she echoed.

“Chickens,” he said miserably. “300 a day. For 30 years. It’s how I trained melee. And ranged. And prayer, when you account for all the bones I buried…” He hung his head, eyes closed in embarrassment. “There. Now you know it. If you want to leave me here, I would completely understand…”

She took his hand, silencing him. 

“I don’t care if you trained on chickens,” she said. “Or cows, or jewellery, or training dummies. Trust me.”

He squeezed her hand back, saying nothing.

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“I think goblins are a little more efficient, though. This time around.”

“Point taken.”

* * *

The two of them hobbled through the Lunar Clan settlement, leisurely, carefully. True to her word, Teiran had cleared out the northern part of the isle from suqahs; using, she told Cyrisus, the art of gentle persuasion.*

The journey was quiet, if slow. The only movement was from the waves around them, and a dark column of smoke from near the altar.

As they paused to rest, Cyrisus breathed in the ocean air, his eyes closed.

“I missed this, too,” he said, steadying himself on the basalt. “I haven’t been to sea in forever…”

“We can do that, you know.” She looked out over the sea, listening to the waves slap the rocks in the distance. “We could go sailing. Find new things. Sail to the e—  _ around _ Gielinor.”

His hand squeezed hers. “I’d like that.”

He took another breath. “Nothing much has changed here, at least,” he said. “The village is all the same… so’s the sky…” he opened his eyes. “The smoke is new, though. Did the Oneiromancer start a fire?”

Teiran was about to reply when a low rumble shook over the ground. The column shifted, breaking away in the sea wind as a great and dark shape rose next to the altar; a pair of wings sprouted from it, and it began to move toward them. 

Teiran felt Cyrisus begin to move in front of her, his meagre muscles tense, but she held him where he stood. “Wait,” she said. “It’s not going to hurt us, I promise.”

She still felt him stiffen as the creature landed in front of them, heat radiating off of it as its wings kicked up a shower of dust. It roared, nearly deafening her; and it opened its toothsome maw and — 

Licked them. Teiran did her best not to recoil as she was coated in sooty dragon drool, and made a mental note to ask for a change of sheets when they returned.

Cyrisus shook his head dry. “Roland?”

The dragon sat back on his haunches, his mouth wide in a toothy grin. Cyrisus, still leaning on Teiran, reached out and touched his snout. Roland let out a happy snort.

“Bloody hell,” Cyrisus said bewilderedly. “He’s all grown up, isn't he?”

Teiran nodded. “He’s holed up in Crandor now, but I nipped over and teleported him here when I was done shouting at the suqahs. You’d be amazed what a Wicked Hood can do nowadays…”

Roland wagged his tail, sending up a whirlwind of sand. A suqah that had apparently missed the memo, and was in the process of emerging from some hidden burrow, was summarily sent skyward; it soared, with a high wail, and landed with a splash in the distant ocean.

Cyrisus grinned, scratching Roland under the chin. “Who’s a good boy?” he said. “Who’s a good boy?”

The dragon sighed, and flopped to the ground, the rock underneath him cracking with the impact.

Cyrisus began to scratch the dragon’s underside, and Roland closed his eyes in bliss. “Crandor, eh?” he said. “Is Kuradal expanding the dungeon?”

She avoided his gaze. “It’s… a long story,” she said.  _ And I’m not entirely sure how he ended up there, either. _

“You can tell me later.” He began to ease himself down, and Teiran helped him. There, he settled against the dragon’s belly, which rumbled with a comfortable growl. 

“Good boy,” Cyrisus said, softly running his hand over the scales. Despite the drool now soaking her clothing and hair, Teiran felt a grin begin to creep up on her face. 

“He is,” she said, running her hand over the dragon’s back. “He absolutely is.”

* * *

Roland made his way back to Crandor before sunset. Teiran knew to expect a pile of panicked letters on account of that, but still felt no trepidation on her return.

A week and a half after Cyrisus awoke, the Oneiromancer bid him well enough to return home. He stumbled a little as he walked, and Teiran had to support him through the teleport spell, but he still managed to land with grace when they arrived in the garden of the house in Ardougne. 

“The topiaries are really quite lovely,” he noted, looking at the greenery around him. “You’ve done rather good things to the place.”

“That was all Asmodeus,” she said. “I’ll show you my rockery, though. The peace lilies really do like the gravel.”

She helped him hobble to the parlour, easing him over to the couch, which he sank into with a grateful sigh. 

“It really hasn’t changed much,” he admitted. “I’m surprised.”

“I didn’t want to.” She looked around the living room, warm and comforting to her as anything. The coffee table was still stained mahogany. The armoire had a spiderweb or two stuck to it. The ceiling was still far too nice for the likes of her. But it was home.

Her thoughts were interrupted by footsteps coming from behind her.

“Miss,” Marianne said. “Is that you? You really ought to give me more warning when you’re away for these long stays, I’ll have to scrounge through the pantry now if you want to get anything to —”

She froze. Her eyes caught sight of Cyrisus, and the colour fled her face, as though she’d seen a ghost.

“Marianne,” Teiran said. “This is —”

Teiran never finished her sentence, for right there and then, the maid fainted.

* * *

A round of smelling salts later and Marianne was on her feet again, babbling like a loon between apologies, updates, and good-natured threats to feed Cyrisus back to full vigour. Teiran let her continue uninterrupted, and Cyrisus was kind enough as to sit through it, answering every one of her questions and consenting to four meals a day.

Asmodeus, who’d been out shopping, returned soon after the maid finished her line of inquiry. When he saw his former employer in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea, he paused, looking him up and down with infernal eyes before dipping into a deep bow. 

“Master,” he said, his growling voice full of reverence. “Forgive me. Had I known of your return, I —”

“I don’t think anyone could have predicted it,” Cyrisus said. “Least of all me. How have you been, Asmodeus?”

The demon grinned, revealing a mouth full of knife-like teeth. 

“Well, master. I have been well.”

* * *

Following all the vigour of the day’s events, dinner was a subdued affair, punctuated by Marianne’s instance that Cyrisus take a fifth helping, and Teiran’s gentle persuasions for her to cease her culinary onslaughts. 

It was just the two of them, now, sitting on the couch in the parlour. His hand was in hers, but that was as far as they touched each other. 

“Um,” she said. “I asked Asmodeus to clean out your room. I haven’t messed with it since you, erm. Left.”

“Thank you,” he said. He squeezed her hand tighter. 

“I, um, have my own room. If you’d prefer…you know, stay in our own spaces…”

“Would you prefer it that way?” He looked to her, and she sensed worry in her voice; his eyes were honest, and filled with concern. 

She shook her head. “No, actually. I wouldn’t. If you want it… I’d rather be with you.”

“I would,” he said. 

And that was that.

* * *

She’d crawled into bed after him; even though Asmodeus had changed the sheets and swept, everything still smelled old and unfamiliar. The mattress was wrong. The light was wrong. Everything felt  _ wrong _ , like it shouldn’t be happening. 

They’d lain, side-by-side with one another, awkwardly. That first night they’d had together, which seemed like a million years ago… they’d hesitated at certain points, yes, but there wasn’t any doubt. 

Now, as he touched her arm Teiran stiffened, breathing in sharply. She felt him quickly snatch it away again. 

“Are you alright?” His voice was full of worry. “Did I —?” 

“No, no. Please, you’ve done nothing wrong,” she said, guilt twisting in her chest. “I’m just… I’m not used to this.” She paused.

“Just...” she whispered, “Just take it slow, ok?”

He stayed silent, but she could hear from the hiss of the pillow fabric that he was softly nodding. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’m going to touch your arm again, ok?”

“‘K.”

She still tensed a little when his hand reached her; it was gentle, but even then she couldn’t quell the alarm bells going off in her head. He stopped, and then gently smoothed his palm over her skin. 

It felt good. It truly did. But a part of her was screaming, wanting to bolt or fight. Being this relaxed was  _ bad. _ Being this vulnerable… there was a knife behind it, wasn’t there? The other shoe was going to drop, and something was going to give, and then it would be all over. She’d wake up and it would be a trick. She’d have handed the stone — damn that blasted thing — over, or it would be her soul, or something else. 

It _ had _ to be a trick. It  _ had _ to be. Her mind was telling her otherwise, but her body resisted nonetheless.  _ Don’t let your guard down. Not for one minute. Don’t let it down, because that’s when it strikes! _

“Teiran?” 

Even his voice jostled her, and she felt her fingers curl and bunch the sheets.

“Teiran?” he said again. “Are you truly alright? You’re crying…”

She shook. “How do I know this is real?” she said aloud. “Cyrisus…”

“It is real.” He sat up — slowly, she noticed. “At least, I’m fairly sure.”

“Mmm,” she sighed. “At this point…”  _ I don’t know. _

They sat in silence for a while, while her heartbeat settled. She could hear his breathing from next to her — slow, even — and she found herself focusing on it.

It was Cyrisus who broke the silence, saying,

“Are you sure about this?” He paused. “I don’t want to upset you.”

“I know.” She took a breath, shuddering. “I just… I need to get over this.”

“You shouldn’t rush it. If it would make you feel better, I can sleep in ano —”

“No,” said sharply. “Cyrisus, it’s not… I’m not…”

She sat up, squeezing her eyes shut. “ _ Damnit!”  _ she hissed, and then she looked to him. 

“I want you. I do, I really do. But it’s been two damn years, and… things happened. Things changed. I thought I lost you, and…”

She sniffed, shaking her head as she beheld him through a glaze of tears. “You  _ died _ because of me. How can I ever make that up to you? And now…”

“Teiran.”

“What?”

Slowly, wordlessly, she felt his arms wrap around her. Though he paused when she jolted, he continued to embrace her, pulling her close to him. 

She stiffened at first, her body screaming once more. But as it grew tighter, something snapped and spilled. She felt herself relax, by degrees, and allowed herself to be drawn to him.

His hand curled up through her hair, holding her head with the lightest of touches, pressing her to his shoulder. His smell was stronger than it had been three days ago; he no longer carried the scent of dust. Instead, there was earthiness she’d long feared she’d forgotten. 

He was warm. Warm, and solid-feeling and, from the feeling of steady thudding on her right, and from the soft whistle of breath in her hair where his nose was pressed,  _ alive. _

“Please,” he whispered, his voice soft and muffled. “Please don’t say you’re sorry. You brought me back. You brought me back  _ twice _ . I owe you everything I could ever possibly give. And even if I didn’t owe you, I would still give it all.”

A thought came to her like a sigh, soft and tired. And it said: 

_ This  _ is _ real. This is him. You know it. Nothing in the world could be realer than him, right here and right now. _

She allowed herself to be held, saying nothing, simply listening to him and smelling him and letting herself melt, degree by degree. And, degree by degree, that feeling in her chest flickered like a long-extinguished flame and grew.

Safe. She was safe. It didn’t matter if he could barely lift a sword or raise a bow. She was safe, because he was there. 

Slowly, slowly, she pulled her arms around his waist, tugging him as tightly as she dared. She was afraid he might break, but at the same time, she never wanted to let him go. 

He shifted, slightly, and she felt his lips press to her forehead, gently brushing away a strand of hair with his thumb. She looked up.

Green eyes met brown, the former being considerably more watery.  _ Soppy girl.  _

Nevertheless, she felt a smile curve up over her lips, tears on her cheeks be damned. He followed suit, though his own was a little sadder. 

“I love you,” he said. “More than anything in the world. And I want you to be ok.”

She nodded. “I love you, too.” She paused. “And I am.”

_ Even even if it’s true for only a bit,  _ she thought, _ it’s enough. _

* * *

Things went slowly after that. While she thought she’d be crawling all over him the minute they slipped into bed, that was obviously untrue; and even when she got used to his touch again, everything thereafter felt like unfamiliar territory. 

Still, gradually, it became familiar again. She remembered what it was like to be touched. How  _ good _ it felt. How she loved feeling his fingertips press into her sides as he gripped her. The sharp hisses she could draw from him when she traced her nails over his back. It was slow, and steady, and halting. Everything and little things, in stops and starts and all at once. 

Afterwards, when he was holding her again and they’d found that old familiar way of curling around one another that mutually prevented anyone’s arms from going numb, and things felt  _ somewhat _ normal, he’d told her:

“You’re hot.”

She’d smirked, letting out a laugh. “You tell me now? I don’t think you’ve ever put it that way before.”

“Not like that,” he said, as he blushed. “I mean. Like that. But you’re warm. Warmer than… before, I think.”

She immediately thought of several explanations. The exercise. How being dead probably didn’t do much for an accurate sense of temperature. That it’d been long enough that he might’ve forgotten. 

Anything, really, except the fact that she had enough power in her veins to body-slam a mahjarrat. Power that she couldn’t control. Power that she wondered if she’d be able to summon — or banish — from her ever again.

So she said, simply:

“I suppose I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"If I don't see you all out of this place within the next sixty seconds, I will burn this godsdamned island down."


	78. Epilogue

“Are you sure about this?”

Teiran looked at the gangplank once more. Cyrisus was on the other side waiting patiently; even with his presence, the small piece of wood felt miles wide. 

She took a breath. “Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

She stepped over it, clambering down next to him. He took her hand in his, and she squeezed back gratefully. 

The boat took off ten minutes later, sailing to the east. She could see it, even from Port Sarim, getting closer all the time. The trees. The rooftops. The sheep became more visible the closer the ship got, as did the dread curling in her chest.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Cyrisus said. “They might be your family, but you’re not obligated to see them.”

“I know,” Teiran replied. “But… well. It’s been a while. And they’re  _ my _ family. They ought to know that I’m still alive, at least.”

The only other occupants on the boat were a young girl and her mother. The girl was wielding a wooden sword, and enthusiastically attacking several imaginary monsters that no doubt were menacing the general population. 

“Is it true, mum, that Vannaka will train you if you can defeat him in combat?” she said, slashing away an invisible threat. 

“We’ll have to see, Winnie,” her mother said in exasperation. “At the very least, we might be able to get you an apprenticeship.”

“Yeah!” the girl crowed. “And I’ll be a real adventurer, like the ones who slayed the Falador mole…”

The ship landed. The docks were tiny and new. They were graced only by a few rowing boats and a small sailboat towards the end. The small port seemed busy, though, and Teiran got the feeling it would grow busier.

The pair disembarked, picking their way up the green hills, following no marked path. Now and again, someone would rush by them, off to some unseen goal; now and again, Teiran would stop one and kindly point out that the prayer instructor was  _ that  _ way. 

They continued in silence, hopping fences and dodging newbies until they reached a smallish house on the very edge of the island. Nobody was running here; in fact, the footpaths looked long overgrown from disuse. Scattered sheep grazed around it, paying no mind to the humans as they approached. 

Teiran stared at the front door like it was a gate to Infernus.

_ Same paint, _ she thought.  _ Same knocker… gods, do things ever change here? I can probably even find the little knick I made in it with my first knife…. _

“You’re really sure?” Cyrisus said. “It’s not too late, you know. I’ve got enough runes to take us to Trollheim, if you wanted.”

She shook her head. “No. You know me. I can’t run from anything.” She sighed. “Least of all this…”

She reached forward and rapped on the door. 

There was silence, for a moment, and then a muffled voice came from the inside. 

“We’re retired!” it shouted. “If you’re here for the cooking lesson, head round back and take the cowpath!”

“I’m not here for a crafting tutorial,” Teiran said. 

There was a sound of footsteps, and the door rattled. It opened, revealing a short, rather stout woman. Her messy curly hair was tied back in a bun, bleached of its blonde in her age. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re just not taking new students right now. So if you’d be so kind as to... To…”

Her voice trailed off, her eyes slowly widening.

“Teiran?” she said, softly. 

Teiran nodded. “Hi, mum.”

The woman stared at her for a solid moment. Teiran stiffened, waiting for a shout, or a scold, or the inevitable order to leave. 

Instead, she was caught by surprise in a bone-crushing hug. 

“Teiran!” the woman cried, muffledly. “Saradomin above, we thought we’d never see you again…”

“Mum,” Teiran said, her throat becoming tight. “Mum, you’re squishing me...”

The woman let go. “Come in,” she said. “Both of you. I assume you’re with her, and not to learn clockworks?”

Cyrisus nodded, and the woman gestured both of them in. 

“I’ll get tea on the brew,” she said. “Teiran, your father’s out back, I’ll go fetch him. Tom! TOM! You’re not going to believe this…!”

She disappeared, leaving the two of them alone. 

“So,” Cyrisus said, a touch awkwardly. “That’s your mum?”

“Yeah.” She paused. “Hasn’t changed a day… her hair’s a little greyer I suppose…”

She looked around the room. That hadn't changed much either. It still had the same dowdy wallpaper. It still had the same overstuffed chairs. It still had the same Hideous Floral Couch, accented by a coffee table bearing a tea set with a jug shaped like a humorous cow. 

“Huh,” Cyrisus said. “Those are a lot of clippings.”

She turned around, following his gaze. 

The wall behind the couch, which, when she’d left, had been bare, was now covered in picture frames of newspaper stories. Most were from  _ The Varrock Herald _ , with a few from the Asgarnian regions. They all bore different headlines, with varying lengths in the clips that followed;  _ Local Woman Vanquishes Swamp Rats. Local Woman Helps Unite Goblin Tribes. Adventurer Slays Elvarg. Hero Saves Varrock from Zombies…. _

A few of the newer headlines replaced  _ adventurer _ with  _ World Guardian. _ She paid these little heed, letting her eyes slide over them with a hint of disdain. 

“All this time…” she muttered, shaking her head. “They’ve been watching me…”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Cyrisus said. 

She shrugged. “They didn’t want me to be an adventurer, I thought. I figured they’d pitch my name away and out the door with the morning ashes…”

“Well,” he said. “It seems like they didn’t.”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice quiet.

It was then that she heard the back door open and slam shut, followed by the thud of heavy boot prints tromping into the living room. A man entered, tall and willowy. His hair was entirely greyed by age, and his face was heavily burned from the sun; however, it did little to offset the startling green of his eyes behind his glasses.

Without a word he marched towards Teiran. She stood up, about to say something, when he grabbed her in a hug, cutting away whatever words he was about to form. 

“Teiran?” he said, his voice choked. “You’re home…?”

He pulled away, beaming, though his eyes glimmered with tears.

“Hey, dad,” Teiran said, and she was beaming back at him. She let go of him, wiping her eyes with the palm of her hands. “Yeah. I’m home.”

“And who,” her mother said, coming up from behind with a tray of tea, “might this young fellow be?”

Teiran took Cyrisus’s hand into hers, and he stood up next to her.

“This,” she said, “is my man.”

* * *

There were long conversations, after that. There was tea. There were questions — an endless barrage about everything from her adventures to the way Saradomin liked his sheets folded. Some she answered honestly. Some she danced around. And some she avoided entirely.

“Stay for dinner, dear,” her mother had said, as she added more sugar to her tea. “Your brother’s been so busy, between teaching and seeing that new guild in Asgarnia, but he always comes round on Essiandays. He’s got a lovely little house by the shore, you really ought to have him show you…”

“He’s been off the island?” Teiran said. “But why didn’t I run into him…?”

“It’s only been recently,” her father quickly added. “And, well, you’ve moved about quite a lot… we weren’t sure how to reach you.”

Teiran looked to the ground. “Yeah… that…”

She coughed. “I live in Ardougne now. Um, and if you want to visit…”

Her mother took her hand. “We’d love to.”

Teiran was about to say something when the slam of the door interrupted her. Two small children, both girls, barreled into the room, launching themselves at the older couple. 

“Granny!”

“Granda!”

Teiran looked up. A set of footsteps thudded down the hall, accompanied by an older, tireder, but familiar voice. 

“Calm down, you two,” it said. “You know Grandma Anne can’t take roughhousing well any —”

The man stopped. A few streaks of grey were working through his dark hair, and there were considerably more lines in his face than when she’d last seen him.

Reynard’s eyes widened. 

“Sis?”

* * *

“You’ve changed, Teiran.”

She couldn’t help but smirk. She’d heard that phrase too often, now, but if there was anybody who had the right to say it most, it was her brother.

They were up on the old hill near the Runescape Guide’s house, watching the two girls play in the surf below. One of them was chasing Cyrisus with a crab, who was making a rather good show of looking suitably terrified. 

“Changed?” Teiran echoed. “In what way?” She looked over to him. The heavy tool belt around his waist was a new addition; the fireproof goggles on his head, lightly coated in soot, were not.

“Where do I start?” he said. “The last time I saw you, you were a  _ kid. _ Now… well, look at you!” He gestured to her as a whole. “All clad in armour, you’ve cut your hair, you don’t wear skirts, and that scar over your eye —”

“Ankou,” she said. “If you’re ever near Gunnarsgrunn, don’t go down the Stronghold of Security underequipped. Unlike me.”

He snorted. “Ok, maybe you haven’t changed  _ that _ much.”

“Eh, that was a while ago.” She hugged her knees to her chest. “A lot’s happened.”

“You look tired, to be honest.”

She smirked. “So do you.”

“Hm.” He leaned back, idly braiding a sheaf of grass in his hand. He’d always been like that, she reflected; always moving. Always keeping his hands occupied with something. 

“So this World Guardian thing…” he started.

She sighed. “It’s mostly glorified babysitting,” she said. “And being a janitor.”

“No. I’m…”

“Surprised?”

“No, not really.”

She looked over to him, bewilderedly. “What?”

He shrugged. “You said it yourself. You wanted to be the world’s greatest adventurer. And, well…”

“I’m not.” She turned away, looking back to ocean waves. “I was… lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it.”

Reynard didn’t reply, instead watching his daughters with a hint of pride about him. The girls had managed to coerce Cyrisus into giving them both a piggyback ride. Teiran figured it could count as strength training. 

“ ‘Nard,” she said. She heard him utter a soft sound of surprise at the old nickname, but he didn’t correct her. 

She sighed. “I’ve been a prick, haven’t I?”

The surprised noise came again. “What makes you say that?”

“You know.”

He paused. “Yeah.”

He paused again. “But only as much as I’ve been, really.”

She didn’t reply. He continued. 

“I… I don’t think you would have been happy here, to be honest. I know mum and dad were looking out for you…”

“I could have gone about it better,” she said. 

“They could have, too. And I could have.”

“Mmm.”

Silence stretched between them. She noticed the grey streaks in his hair again. He was only a few years older than her; in any other circumstances, she would have wondered when she’d join him. 

“Are you happy?” she said, suddenly. “Living here? Having kids? Teaching people?”

He didn’t reply at first. And then:

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

He turned to her. “Are you? Doing what you’re doing?”

She looked to the shore again. Cyrisus was lying on his back now, heartily coated in sand as one of the girls attempted to remove his left shoe; the other was cheering her on, while Cyrisus had his hand clamped over his mouth in silent laughter.

“Yeah,” Teiran said, a smile creeping up on her face. “I think I am.” 

* * *

The evening wore on, and questions turned to apologies. Apologies turned to promises. And promises turned to goodbyes. 

Teiran and Cyrisus sat on the shore, now, watching the boat from Port Sarim approach. The sun was setting in the west, dipping below the Galarpos Mountains and turning the sea scarlet. 

Teiran let out a sigh, breathing in the salt air. “That… went better than expected,” she said. “Far better than expected, actually.”

Cyrisus grinned. “I knew you were worrying for nothing.”

“Oh, hush, you.”

“What will we do tomorrow?”

“Training, I think,” Teiran said. “You’re nearly up to adamantine armour, right? In two months, no less.”

“If we keep going like this, you’ll have me in necronium before the end of Novtumber….”

“Is that a challenge?”

“For me, maybe,” Cyrisus said with a laugh. “But for you…”

His hand found hers, momentarily, before he pulled it back. She was about to ask why when she heard him rummage about in his bag. 

He produced a box, plainly wrapped, and deposited it on her lap. 

“I got my bank unlocked today,” he said. “It’s surprisingly difficult to convince them that you’re not dead when you’re standing right in front of them.”

She blushed. “You really didn’t…”

“Open it.”

She did. 

The hat inside the box was, in shape, rather like her old one. It had the same broad brim, and the same white, jaunty feather tucked into the band. It was even black.

This one, however, was considerably less tattered. And, she noted, was trimmed with gold.

Teiran took the cavalier out, carefully brushing over the new leather with her fingertips.

“You…?” she said, bewilderedly. 

“I mean, if you don’t like it, I can take it back,” Cyrisus babbled. “Or if it doesn’t fit. Erm. I figured you’d want a new one, considering what happened to your original. If you’d like, I can pay for it all in keb—”

She silenced him with a kiss, his muffled words dying under her embrace.

“It’s perfect,” she said, pulling away. She put the hat on, and it indeed fit like it was made for her. It wasn’t exactly the same as her old one, of course. It still had that new leather smell, and it wasn’t quite shaped to her head as the previous one had been, and the brim was a little too stiff. 

But all those things, she reflected, would be fixed with time. Time, wear, and possibly some monster-induced weathering.

Their hands found each other again, and there they stayed, fingers lacing over the sand. Cyrisus’s palm was becoming rough again, slowly returning to its calloused state as he got good at fighting once more. Combat did the body hard, after all.

He breathed in, seeming to savour the air like it was a gift. “What now?” 

_ What now? _ Teiran thought to herself. After everything? After all they’d been through? Now and what came after stretched forward like a question mark, unknown, terrifying, beautiful. 

She curled her fingers around his hand.  _ At least, _ she thought,  _ it has you in it. _

She smiled. “That, I think, is up to us.”

And she leaned over and kissed him, and he kissed her back...

And she let the future work itself out.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQJ6uHoL72g ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQJ6uHoL72g)
> 
> (See next chapter for Author's Note)


	79. Author's Note

**To my readers:**

This was supposed to be a one-shot. 

So much for _that._

13 months, 237,596 words, some editing, a bit of HTML coding, and many, many headaches later, here we are. I’m boondoggled, mindboggled, and lots of other oggles that I’ve gotten to this point, considering this is the longest continuous story I’ve ever written (and completed, for that matter). It’s been a _journey,_ folks.

The idea for this, as some of you may know, came from a replay of the _Dream Mentor_ quest when I cracked open my old alt account from 2011. As my character tried to give some cave rando a bunch of virtual fish without feeding him the same damn thing twice in a row, it occurred to me that more romantically-hearted people could see it as a love story in the making. Made sweeter, of course, by the fact that said cave rando dies in a completely horrifying way not a dozen quests later. 

(That romantically-inclined person is me, who happens to also be a sucker for tragedy.)

So what started as a Google Doc, a whim, and a half-hearted promise that it wouldn’t exceed the 3,000-word mark, turned to 5,000 words. 5,000 words turned to 10,000, 10,000 turned to 30,000… yeah. 

I don’t regret a word of it (misspellings et al). Going through this monstrosity of a thing, I decided that I wanted to bring back that high so many of us — those who came crawling back to the world of Gielinor after nearly a decade, inexplicably en masse — still chase. Exploration. Wonder. Fear. Terror. Triumph and loss that somehow an in-browser MMORPG from 2008 can accomplish with janky graphics and a MIDI soundtrack. I wanted to capture the feeling of a game that got me through the horrors of middle school, and that did the same for so many other people. I hope I’ve been able to do so with some adequacy. At the very least, I hope I’ve made you laugh a little. 

Acknowledgements are in order. First of all, I sincerely thank each and every person who has read, kudos’ed, bookmarked, commented, or just plain clicked on this story and gave it a chance. Every single bit of feedback and critique has helped me and given me a huge amount of joy, and I am truly amazed how many people have read and enjoyed this. 

To boot, thank you to everyone who nominated, voted for, and cheered me on in the Golden Gnomes. I never would have expected that a fanfiction - let alone this behemoth - could make it to the Gnomes, but this has been a year of surprises. I hope that this will pave the way for other fanfics to make it to next year’s awards (I’m looking at you, fellow writers! Fill the RS tag!) and inspire you all to write their own stories.

An enormous thanks as well to the Runescape Art Community Discord, which has been a source of audience members, commentary, laughs, memes, and consolation over the more frustrating parts of writing over the past year. It’s one of the best communities I could chance to join, and the founders and members are some of the most awesome people I know. 

To my beta readers: Diana, thank you for taking a chance on a 50,000 (at the time) word monster back in January, and giving me the confidence that I could actually publish the dang thing. Fenn: I’ve told you a billion times before, and I’ll say again that you’re amazing, you put up with my excess amount of commas with an excess amount of grace, and you give me enough life and energy to power Dorgesh-Kaan. 

And finally, thank you to the writers at Jagex who created a story about a sad cave rando, made him even sadder than he had any right to be, and giving this romance-inclined individual inspiration to make something of it. 

It’s been a crazy journey, friends, and it’s not over. While I can’t exactly say what I’ll do next, I’ll certainly continue writing more stuff. I’ll do my best to surprise and delight you. 

With utmost love, sincerity, and appreciation, 

[Chaos_Elemental](https://twitter.com/chaos_elemental)

P.S. Zmw gl veviblmv dsl gizmhozgvw zoo gsv hgfuu rm Zgyzhs - pfwlh gl blf! Pvvk dzgxsrmt. Gsv mvcg kzig lu gsrh drow irwv rh, zh gsvb hzb, Fmxszigvw Gviirglib. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Beyond the Veil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25735180) by [fennfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennfics/pseuds/fennfics)




End file.
